


Final Credits

by bea_flowers



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, College, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2020-09-27 12:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 31,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20407996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_flowers/pseuds/bea_flowers
Summary: Daisy Murphy only needs one more class to graduate, but things get tricky when she's paired up with Stiles Stilinski for their class project.





	1. Chapter 1

# MONDAY, JANUARY 21, 6:00 A.M., SETON HALL

Murphy wakes as she always does—two hours early with a swear word and a bruise, banging her knee against the corner of the bed as she climbs down.

And, like every Monday morning, she takes her time sorting through identical pairs of freshly washed jeans and piles of the same striped shirt in different colors.

She sips from her favorite mug, the one with René Magritte’s “The Menaced Assassin” printed on the side. She’s always found it endearing, the fact that some misguided soul had covered a commercial gift shop mug in a painting featuring a naked woman, bleeding from the mouth.

After reaching the dredges of the tea leaves and washing the mug with painstaking attentiveness, she completes the last of her morning rituals, which include buckling her father’s leather watch to her wrist, fastening her mother’s pendant around her neck, and shoving her feet into a pair of distressed Chuck Taylors she’s been too busy to replace.

Murphy hops the Seton Hall dormitory stairs two at a time, descending the seven flights at double the pace. She pushes through the main doors and staggers out into the bright sunlight.

She shields her eyes—‘bug eyes,’ they’ve been called by cruel preteens and well-meaning extended family alike, though she’s never paid much mind to their taunts, being far too preoccupied with the limitless catalog of worldly information she has yet to consume.

She readjusts the oversized thick-framed glasses balancing precariously on the gentle slope of her nose.

She’s been informed by several knowledgeable salespersons at the Glasses Emporium and countless articles in women’s magazines that the frames are far too large for her round face—the only round part of her, in fact, with the rest of her being all angles and elbows. Regardless, they’ve been balancing precariously on her nose for nearly a decade now.

It’s far too difficult to discern whether they’ve been there because Murphy actually likes them or because so many have told her she shouldn’t. Yet, it’s most likely she enjoys the dangerous mystique the glasses evoke whilst paired with her unruly tresses. She rather enjoys looking like a mad scientist on the verge of a disastrous invention that only Superman will be able to put a stop to.

Murphy treks across the courtyard and into the Winston Hall academic building. She settles into the prime lecture hall spot: third row, dead center. Even after methodically laying out her crisp notebook and three No. 2 pencils, she is still the only student in the room.

“Good morning, Daisy,” Professor Dalton mumbles as he waltzes into the lecture hall, taking a generous sip from his travel coffee mug. “I see you’ve signed up for another one of my courses.”

“These are the last credits I need to graduate,” she carols back, far too chipper for the early hour, ignoring the fact that Dalton still calls her by her given name. “Figured criminology might be an interesting topic, especially if you’re teaching it.”

Murphy’s compulsive tendency to take on the guise as class suck-up has persisted through her primary and secondary education. Though, as a young woman with a sickeningly sweet ‘speaking-to-adults’ voice in a world of perverted online content featuring the wildly popular pornography category Teacher/Student, her pandering toward academic authority figures has often come off as flirtatious.

It’s not.

“Usually when students are looking for an easy credit class, they don’t choose a three-hundred-level course. They’ll take jewelry making or yoga or… I don’t know, creative writing.”

“I get bored easily,” Murphy shrugs.

“You’re probably in the right place then. My class is anything but boring.”

“I hope so,” she giggles.

Troves of weary-eyed students bundled in winter coats file in as the minutes tick by, quickly filling every seat in the room until there are only three spare desks: two in the first row and one to Murphy’s right.

Professor Patrick Dalton is considered one of the university’s most beloved educators, which has led to six consecutive years of waitlisted courses, even the 8 a.m. slots. Some accredit this to his exceptional teaching skills and unique ability to relate to his students, but most lay blame on his objectively good looks and undeniable Indiana Jones-esque demeanor.

“Welcome to Criminology 301,” Dalton starts, kicking the door stop up with the toe of his boot.

A frazzled boy slides through the crack in the door, causing every head in the room to turn as it clatters shut. The boy stands there frozen; knees bent in a running position, arms stiff, palms raised in defense, long fingers spread wide, guilty grimace plastered to his speckled face.

“I—I’ll just…” he stutters, flinging his flannel-covered arms wildly around him, gesturing toward the rows of desks. Dalton extends his arm, sarcastically welcoming the boy into the classroom.

The boy scans the room for a seat. Murphy splays her legs underneath her desk and spreads her arms across the seat back, doing everything she can to hide the empty desk beside her, positive she won’t be able to focus with the fidgety boy sat in it. 

In a karmic joke kind of way, the boy chooses the spot next to her, pointing to the seat with enthusiasm reminiscent of Babe Ruth, but grace more similar to one of the Stooges.

He tumbles into the chair and drops his backpack to the floor. Every zip and rustle the makes seems to echo throughout the room. His plaid sleeve brushing against Murphy’s striped one. She shudders at his twitchy movements and hugs her elbow in tighter to her ribcage.

“Like I was saying,” Dalton continues. Murphy struggles to hear him over the noise the boy makes beside her. He rifles through his backpack, then pats at the pockets of his jeans before taking a sharp inhale.

“Ah, shit,” he whines on the exhale. The boy twists at the torso, facing Murphy, and asks, “Do you have a pen I can borrow?”

Murphy glances down at the three finely sharpened pencils lining the edge of her desk and reluctantly hands one to him, already bitter knowing she’ll never see it again.

“Thanks,” he winks and flips his water-warped notebook open to a blank page.

Murphy tries to focus on Dalton, but all she can pay attention to is the boy’s leg bouncing restlessly out of the corner of her eye. Murphy clenches her fist, fighting the urge to hold his knee down and stop his jittering.

“So, this semester, you’ll each be assigned a fictional case,” Dalton projects across the room. “Before you get too excited, this isn’t going to be like some episode of _Criminal Minds_ or _Law & Order_…”

The boy’s leg bounces higher and faster, causing his clothes to rustle even louder. Murphy clenches her jaw and shoots her arm out under his desk anyway, clamping down on his knee.

The boy stops shaking and looks up at her, mouth gaping. His honey-colored eyes narrow as he raises his eyebrow suggestively and pulls the corners of his open mouth into a knowing smirk.

“Stop. Moving.” Murphy demands through gritted teeth.

“Sorry, can’t help it. It’s the ADHD.”

“That’s not an excuse,” Murphy snaps. “It’s 2019, we all have ADHD. Take some Adderall like the rest of us and grow the fuck up.”

The boy’s jaw drops once more, mouth returning to what Murphy assumes is its constant gaping state, at the swear word that slithers out of Murphy’s lips.

“Is there something more interesting going on, Daisy?” Dalton calls out.

Murphy’s face flushes pink at the sound of her name in the silent classroom. She releases her grasp on the boy’s leg. “Uh, no, there’s not, sorry.”

“Seeing as you and Mr. …?” Dalton gestures vaguely to the boy.

“Stiles,” the boy answers, that knowing (and entirely inappropriate, considering the current situation) smirk returning to his lips.

Dalton scans the class roster before looking back up at the two of them. “I don’t have a Stiles on here.”

“Yeah, that’s just what I go by,” he explains. “Last name’s Stilinski.”

“Ah, found you,” Dalton nods, pointing to the name on the sheet. “Good lord, what’d you do to your parents to land a first name like _that_?”

Scattered snickers erupt across the lecture hall. Murphy sinks into her seat and places her forehead in her hand, elbow propped up on the desk. She hides her eyes from this… Stiles, afraid she may go blind from the embarrassment radiating off his tartan patterned body. 

“It’s a family name, okay?” Stiles gripes. Murphy’s No. 2 pencil nearly flies out of his hand as he flings his palm out absently in a futile attempt to punctuate his defense.

“Well, Miss Murphy and Mr. Stilinski, looks like the two of you will be our first pair.”

“Pair?” Murphy squeaks.

“Yes, for the entire semester,” Dalton smiles, enjoying this a bit too much. Murphy and Stiles exchange a panicked look, neither pleased with the turn of events. “Let’s continue.”

Dalton reviews the syllabus and explains the course capstone project, “Each of you will be assigned a fictional mystery inspired by a real unsolved case. In pairs, you will record the evidence, present your suspects, make your arrests, and solve the case by the end of the semester. On average, this project takes each pair the full fourteen weeks to complete with an average of two three-hour study sessions a week. This accounts for seventy percent of your final grade, the other thirty percent being the midterm on March 15.”

Dalton partners students and assigns cases, leaving Murphy and Stiles for last.

“And, finally, Miss Murphy and Mr. Stilinski, your case is the Rose Ainsworth Murder.” Dalton drops a case file packet onto either desk and crosses his arms, a devious smile on his face.

“Nice,” Stiles exclaims, slapping the desk enthusiastically. Murphy flashes him a confused glare. Stiles exhales in disbelief, “C’mon, it’s murder. When has murder not been interesting?”

“I mean, I doubt the victims enjoy it,” Murphy hisses.

“Well, sure, but it’s not like anybody actually died. It’s fake, right?”

“Yes,” Dalton confirms, “but these cases are all based on real ones.”

Stiles’ eyes light up. “Oh, cool, what’s ours based on?”

Dalton shakes his head in defeat. “I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.”

“Too much? Yeah, I felt that, too,” Stiles stammers.

“Good luck,” Dalton whispers to Murphy. He addresses the class, “That’s all for today. Don’t forget to pick up your textbooks, you’ll need them for Wednesday’s class. They’re all listed on the syllabus and in the bookstore. I have open office hours from noon to 3 this afternoon. And, before you ask, I will not be reassigning partners.”

Dalton grabs his bag, sets the door stop down, and is the first out of the room. The students follow suit, flooding into the hallway.

Murphy slips her things into her backpack and slings it over her shoulder as she stands, accidentally hitting Stiles in the face as she steps past him.

Stiles scrambles up and sprints out after her. “Hey, wait up!” he shouts. “I need your number or email or something so we can start this project—”

Murphy whips around, nearly crashing into his chest. “You just had to go and ruin everything, didn’t you?”

“Me, ruin everything? What about you? Putting your hand on my leg like that… What did you think you were doing? I do not remember consenting,” he challenges, punctuating his thought with a pointed finger.

“You’re the one who can’t fucking sit still. You’re like a goddamn toddler, constantly moving. I mean, Jesus motherfucking Christ…” she trails off.

“Hey, I think that’s a little uncalled for. My restlessness is a medical condition—”

“Yeah, you mentioned that already.”

“It is a neurological disorder!” he shouts.

“Then, get some fucking pills for it!” Murphy yells back. Her voice echoes through the bustling hallway.

“Have you ever said a single sentence without swearing?” Stiles retorts. Murphy tightens her jaw, growling and panting, glaring at Stiles. He softens his voice. “Let’s start over, yeah? We have to work together all semester, so we should at least be able to tolerate each other.”

Murphy closes her eyes and takes three deep breaths before opening them again. “You’re right,” she grumbles.

The corner of Stiles’ mouth turns up in a crooked, cocky grin. “Those words always sound good, but they are especially satisfying coming out of your mouth.”

“Yeah, this isn’t gonna fucking work,” Murphy huffs, pivoting and hurrying down the hall.

“Stop!” Stiles runs to catch her again.

“I’m gonna drop the course. I’ll find another one to take. All I need’s the credits.”

“Well, shit, don’t do that,” Stiles gripes. “I don’t wanna force you outta the class. Clearly, you’re actually interested in it. Either that or Professor Dalton…”

“Fuck you,” Murphy snarls. She attempts to shove past him, but is stalled by his long arm.

“I was joking,” he whines. “It was a stupid joke, okay? You should stay in the class.” 

Murphy crosses her arms over her chest. “Fine, then you’ll drop.”

“I can’t. I need to pass this class to graduate.”

“Great, so it’s settled. I’ll drop.”

“Will you stop that?!” Stiles shrieks. “No one is dropping this class. We’re gonna do this thing even if it kills us.”

“I don’t think the risk matches the reward in this case, bucko.”

“So, what? You’re gonna let Professor Dalton win? You’re gonna drop his class ‘cause he partnered you with some dumbass?”

“You’re the dumbass he partnered me with.”

“Yeah, I know that. What I’m saying is…”

Murphy looks down at her feet and sighs. “Fine.”

Stiles perks up. “Fine? You’ll do it?”

“Yeah, I’ll do it,” she mumbles, already regretting her decision.

“Gimme your phone.” Stiles wiggles his long fingers and waits for Murphy to drop her phone in his palm. He punches in his number and texts himself. “Gotcha.”

“Please, don’t make me regret this.”

“Oh, and you forgot this.” Stiles pulls Murphy’s No. 2 pencil out of his backpack.

“Thanks,” Murphy smiles, hesitant surprise coating her voice. No one’s ever given one of her pencils back to her. She sticks it behind her ear and through the side of her loose French braid.

“Safe keeping?” Stiles snorts.

“I usually forget they’re there, to be honest. I can’t count how many fucking pencils I’ve dropped on the bathroom floor before getting in the goddamn shower,” she chuckles and bites down on her bottom lip.

Often, the biting of one’s lip represents seduction or sexual attraction. For Murphy and her unfortunately large front teeth, this meant anything but. Her four front incisors successfully cover her entire bottom lip, and along with her unnaturally large eyes, this causes her to resemble a gopher.

She is very lucky she was not born on February 2, for surely she would have grown up resembling a groundhog instead, which would objectively have been much worse. April 10 was a much better day to be born for Murphy.

“Anyway,” she continues, “this has been a great way to start the fucking day, so I’ll see you ‘round, only when I have to.”

Stiles watches Murphy disappear around the corner and sighs, “Well, it’s progress.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of smut for ya.

# MONDAY, JANUARY 21, 3:56 P.M., SETON HALL

Murphy traipses up the stairs of Seton Hall and tosses her overstuffed backpack to the floor. She trudges to her desk, collapses into the swivel chair, and drops her forehead onto her crossed forearms resting atop the desk.

She groans and reaches for the half-full—or half-empty, as Murphy sees it—glass of water on her bedside table. The towering stack of weathered novels, most sporting yellowed pages and deflated 1980s price stickers, threatens to topple as the table shakes.

She takes a sip, places the water back the coaster on the bedside table, and promptly drops her forehead back onto her crossed arms.

A knock at the door.

Murphy lifts her head and leaps out of the chair, opening the door to reveal a well-built athlete with boyish features.

“Hey,” he purrs, arm resting on the doorframe, face in a smoldering pout. 

“Get your ass in here,” Murphy demands, grabbing the boy by the shirt and yanking him into her dorm room.

“It’s good to see you, too,” he laughs. He kicks off his shoes and drapes his jacket across Murphy’s desk chair. “How was your winter break?”

“We don’t have to do that, Mitch.”

Mitch turns and looks up to see Murphy standing in the center of the room in nothing but her underwear. She shakes out her French braid, fanning her messy hair over her shoulders. “Now, stop fucking around and fuck me already.”

Mitch beams and strips off his clothes, trailing them through the room as he follows Murphy to her bed. He nearly rips a hole in his t-shirt as he tugs it past his chiseled jaw.

Murphy presses her palm flat against Mitch’s chest and pushes him back onto the mattress. She fishes through the drawer in her bedside table and pulls out a condom.

Murphy tears open the packaging and rolls it onto Mitch’s already hard cock, immediately sliding off her underwear, straddling him, and easing onto him, quickly adjusting to his familiar size. 

Mitch rests his head on Murphy’s pillow while she rocks her hips against him, rubbing her clit against his pelvis, tightening her muscles around his thick cock, eyes squeezed shut. The moans rumble in her chest before falling out of her mouth in muffled grunts as she hastens her pace and digs her fingernails into his chest.

Murphy has never been one for foreplay as she prides herself on efficiency. There is only a finite amount of time in the world and for Murphy she’d much rather be spending that time getting down to business… or fucking the human embodiment of a golden retriever/MVP of the university’s lacrosse team.

“Oh, fuck,” Mitch growls beneath her. He wraps his calloused hands around her hips and attempts to roll her onto her back. Murphy shoves his hands off and pins them above his head.

With her bony fingers clasping his hands together, she writhes on top of him, gaze fixed on his muscular chest, glistening in slick sweat. She tightens her grip on his wrists and drags herself up and down his throbbing cock.

“Hey,” Mitch pants, “look at me.”

Murphy lifts her eyes, glances at Mitch’s face, and then drops her stare back to his rippling muscles.

Mitch, displeased, escapes Murphy’s desperate grasp. He grabs a fistful of her hair and drags her face to his, kissing her with passion fueled solely by the desire to perform, to impress. Murphy catches his bottom lip between her teeth and pulls. She forces his fingers from her tresses and ducks her head between her shoulders, bouncing up and down on his cock with undeniable vigor.

Murphy collapses onto Mitch’s chest as her walls clench around him. She promptly rolls off and hits her knee on the edge of her bed as she slides off the mattress.

“Well, this was fun,” she says as she snatches an oversized sweatshirt off the floor. “Same time Thursday?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Mitch answers, the confusion in his voice misplaced considering this is their usual pattern.

“Great,” Murphy grins. “You’re good to finish yourself off, right? I’ve got a ton of studying to do.”

“Uh…”

“Awesome, thanks, you’re the best, see you Thursday,” Murphy sings, her words stringing together. She shuffles into the bathroom and turns on the shower. She only hops in once she hears the dorm room door click shut.


	3. Chapter 3

# TUESDAY, JANUARY 22, 6:15 P.M., UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

Murphy pulls out her notebook, required reading, case file, and assortment of highlighters. She arranges them neatly in front of her and sets her phone to the side of the desk in line with the rest of her belongings, creating a magazine-esque tableau.

Murphy slumps forward. She rests her elbows on the desk and weaves her fingers together. She sets her stare on the library doors and waits.

Stiles stumbles in, running into a book cart as he makes his way over to Murphy. He collapses into the desk chair across from her. He flings his things out of his backpack and onto the desk.

Stiles’ stained notebook opens to a random page with class notes scrawled on every line and in the margins. Murphy cranes her neck to steal a peek, but is unable to read his undecipherable chicken scratch.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Stiles apologizes.

Murphy flashes him a tight-lipped grin. “Fifteen minutes late.”

Stiles scoffs and shakes his head. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Murphy flips to a blank page in her notebook. She pulls the No. 2 pencil out of her hair, forgetting it’s the only thing pinning her loose bun to the back of her head. The messy strands in desperate need of a good comb through fall to her shoulders.

She rolls her fingers over her bare wrist, feeling for a hair tie that isn’t there. “Ah, fuck,” she breathes.

Stiles watches Murphy rifle through her backpack with her pencil clutched between her teeth. A warmth grows in his chest at the sight of this seemingly always orderly girl scrounging for anything to tame her frizzy locks. A sneaky smirk slides across his face as he takes far too much joy in the sight.

Murphy raises her hand victoriously, grasping a pencil lead-stained rubber band. Stiles is mesmerized by Murphy’s nimble fingers as she plaits her hair. He clears his throat, acutely aware of how long he’s been staring at her, and flips through his copy of the case file.

Murphy brings the tail end of the braid over her shoulder and ties it off with the rubber band. She shakes her fingers through the braid, loosening some of the strands, letting them fall from their secure plait and around her face.

She raises her eyes at Stiles and smiles to herself, taking far too much joy in the sight of him trying not to look at her.

Stiles clears his throat again. “So, what’s first?”

“I think we should start by figuring out what real-life case ours is based on,” Murphy suggests—although, it’s less of a suggestion, more of a demand.

“Isn’t that a bit like cheating?”

Murphy pushes her glasses up her nose and rolls her eyes. “No, it’s smart. Very smart.”

“You must be the humblest person I’ve ever met,” Stiles says sarcastically.

“I’m not gonna lie and say it’s not a good idea. It’s a brilliant idea. That I came up with. There’s no denying that.”

“Got any theories, then?” Stiles asks.

“Oh, I already figured it out,” Murphy claims nonchalantly. 

“You have?”

“It’s not like it was hard or anything. It’s a pretty infamous case.”

Stiles furrows his brow and stares into space, sorting through the case files etched into his memory.

Murphy continues, “You heard of the Black Dahlia?”

Stiles’ face relaxes and he nods. “Right, the movie star that got brutally murdered in the ‘20s or whatever. Chopped in half or something, right?”

“It was the ‘40s, actually,” Murphy corrects. “But anyway, Rose Ainsworth is our Elizabeth Short, which, by process of elimination and comprehensive research, makes our three suspects…” Murphy drags out the ‘S’ in a hiss as she flips through the case file and tracks her finger down the heavily highlighted sheet. “Okay, found it—Dr. Hugh Howard is Dr. George Hodel, Allan Allens is Mark Hansen, and Jack Jackson is Dr. Patrick S. O’Reilly.” Murphy looks up, a disgusted expression plastered to her face. “Shit, we really gotta talk to Dalton about naming suspects.”

“Those names are the real crime,” Stiles adds, eliciting a light-hearted chuckle from the usually stoic girl across from him. A wave of validation swells in his chest.

“Considering these are our suspects, and considering it’s the Black Dahlia case, the murderer is Dr. Hugh Howard. There, solved it.”

“Yeah, but he’s not the murderer,” Stiles challenges.

“Uh, yes, he is.”

“Yeah, but he’s not.”

“Except he is.”

“But, he’s really not.”

“Well, who the fuck is it then?” Murphy snarls, the rumbling in her chest projecting throughout the library, causing the disgruntled student at the table next over to lift his head in annoyance.

Stiles sucks in a breath through his teeth. “The Black Dahlia is an unsolved case, right?”

“Technically, yes,” Murphy grumbles, “but experts pretty much agree—”

“Which means,” Stiles interrupts, “you can’t claim our murderer based on the Black Dahlia, ‘cause there wasn’t a confirmed killer. You have to look at the bigger picture.”

“But I know I’m right,” Murphy insists.

“But you don’t.”

“But I do!” she shouts, rapidly becoming the recipient of multiple glares from fellow students, including the one at the table next.

Stiles drops his head into his hands in exasperation and whispers, “If you’re gonna yell at me the whole time we’re doing this project, we can’t study in the library. I’m not abouta get blacklisted by half the school over your anger issues, okay?”

Murphy growls under her breath in response.

“Why don’t you come to my place tomorrow night and we can finish this argument there? Plus, that’ll give you the night to sleep on it and realize you’re wrong.”

“I’m not fucking wrong, though,” she snaps.

“Sure, you keep telling yourself that,” he snorts.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snippet of Murphy's life.

# WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 23, 12:34 P.M., SETON HALL

Murphy’s phone buzzes on the desk, breaking the silence and causing her to jump in her swivel chair, sending her pencil flying from her hand and across the room.

Murphy has never been keen on answering the telephone. Perhaps it stems from years of unwanted telephone conversations with her rude grandmother, Satan rest her soul. Perhaps it stems from her generation’s aversion to answering the telephone—a gross generalization, obviously. Or, perhaps it stems from residual trauma following the reality-altering, life-shattering telephone call she received almost four years ago.

She lifts the phone to her ear. “This is Murphy—ah, Daisy Murphy.”

“Hello, Miss Murphy, my name is Karen Parker. I’m the assistant of the insurance investigator assigned to your parents’ case. I wanted to fill you in on a few details regarding your settlement.”

“Yeah?” Murphy chomps down on her bottom lip and closes her eyes, trying to not think about the subject matter of that reality-altering, life-shattering telephone call she received almost four years ago.

“Now that the case has been ruled an automobile malfunction—”

“Wait, what?” Murphy interrupts. “I thought it was arson.”

“Oh, has no one told you yet?” Karen asks with inappropriate enthusiasm. “They amended the police report three days ago. The cause of the fire has been deemed an automobile malfunction. Now, the _good_ news is…”

Murphy resumes the gopher bite on her bottom lip, preventing herself from either swearing or laughing at Karen’s claim of ‘good news.’

“… You’ll receive the full settlement of two million dollars—”

“Whoa, hold the fuck up,” Murphy shouts, failing to censor herself as she’d intended. “Sorry for swearing, but… two million dollars? You’re sure that’s the settlement? You didn’t add, like, three zeros or something?”

“Nope, your parents’ life insurance pays out to a total of two million,” Karen chirps, her tone still far too bubbly and excitable for the topic of conversation.

“Fucking two million dollars? Sorry for swearing again.”

“Yes, Miss Murphy. We’ll have an agent in touch with your lawyer, who I’m sure will be contacting you within a few days.”

“Okay, uh, thank you for the update, I guess.”

“You’re welcome. Buh-bye.”

“Bye,” Murphy breathes as she ends the call. The phone slips from her hand and clatters to the desk. “Holy shit,” she laughs. Though, her laughter quickly turns to chest-splitting sobs.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second study sesh, this time at Stiles' apartment.

# WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 23, 7:46 P.M., EVERMAY APARTMENTS, APT. C24

Murphy pounds on the door. She glances at her watch before banging her fist against the wood again.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Stiles whines from inside. He swings the door open to reveal a sweating, red-faced Murphy—hair frizzier than usual, chill-chapped cheeks, entire body quaking under the weight of the mountain of books balancing on her knee.

“Can you let me in already? These books weigh, like, fifty fucking pounds.”

Stiles steps to the side and ushers Murphy in. She staggers past him and flings the pile of books onto his kitchen table. She leans against the rickety Ikea dining chair to catch her breath.

“When you said research, I was picturing more Googling, less turning my kitchen into a library.”

“You said we can’t study at the library anymore, so I had to bring the library to us. Plus, I checked these out for the whole semester, like, two weeks ago.”

Stiles nods, “Cool. A couple of questions, though—One, why did you check out these books two weeks ago? Two, did you already know about the project? And, three, who the hell let you check them out for the whole semester?”

Murphy plops into the chair and starts flipping through pages in her books. “First, I checked them out because I thought they might come in handy. Obviously, I was right. Second, yes, I kinda knew about the project. Dalton’s been giving the same assignment since he started here six years ago. Lastly, you make friends with the librarians and there’s a lot of shit you can get away with. Little pro-tip for you there, pal.”

Murphy lifts her gaze from the books and onto Stiles, his mouth gaping again. She considers this may actually be his mouth’s permanent state.

“Uh, I don’t know how to respond to any of that. So, now that you had your chance to show off, it’s my turn.” Stiles hurries toward his bedroom and wheels out a large cork board covered in pushpins, Black Dahlia case photos, and notecards prominently displaying his chicken scratch. Three spools of yarn—red, yellow, and green—are fixed to the base.

“Bam,” he says, snapping his fingers. He hitches his elbow up onto the edge of the cork board, but it slips off seconds later.

“What is it?”

“Wha—What is it?” he gasps. “It’s a crime board.”

“What the fuck is a crime board?”

“It’s a board… for solving crimes.”

“Yeah, I got that, but what’s it _for_.”

“You pin up the evidence—”

“Oh,” Murphy interrupts, “like a collage?”

“No, not like a collage,” Stiles scoffs. “You pin the evidence, then you connect it with the yarn.”

“I’m still not seeing how this is different from a collage.”

“Well, I don’t know what kind of collages you’re making, but mine usually don’t revolve around deadly crimes.” Stiles pitches his hands on his hips.

Murphy joins him at the crime board. “What does the yarn mean?”

Stiles rubs the back of his head, settling into himself again. “Green is what I know, yellow is what I’m working on, and red is what I don’t know… yet.”

Murphy plucks at the yarn spider-webbing the board. “There’s only red on here, though.”

“Well, yeah, I know that,” Stiles gripes. “But, after we start doing it… the case, I mean… eventually, it’ll all be green.”

Murphy flashes him a side-eyed glance and attempts to hide the subtle lift in the corner of her mouth. “We should probably get started if you wanna turn this case into an art project then.”

“Hey, lay off the crime board, will ya?”

Murphy clasps her palm over her mouth mockingly, “Oh, no, wait! We forgot the glitter! How ever will we solve the case?”

“Do you have to be such an ass all the time?” Stiles asks.

Murphy shrugs, “Maybe.”

“Okay, sarcasm’s kind of my thing and I feel like you’re monopolizing it right now. Look, Daisy—”

“Yeah, no one calls me that.”

Stiles furrows his brow. “No one calls you by your name?”

“No one calls you by yours,” she shoots back.

“Well, what do they call you then?”

“Murphy.”

“People call you by your last name, wow, aren’t you cool?” Stiles jeers, grinning to himself, clearly satisfied.

“Happy now that you got your snarky comeback in?” Murphy asks. Her raised eyebrow peeks out above her thick glasses frames.

“Yes, I am, in fact.”

“I guess we can finally get to work now.”

Murphy slides into a kitchen chair. She pulls at a tab in one of the textbooks and flips open to the marked page, slamming the book’s cover and first two hundred pages onto the table.

Stiles, startled by the noise, jumps before slipping into the chair beside her. He rubs his hands together and claps. “So, where do we start?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy and Stiles lost track of time while they were studying. Murphy gets a ride home.

# THURSDAY, JANUARY 24, 1:13 A.M., EVERMAY APARTMENTS, APT. C24

By midnight, the crime board is covered in even more photos, notecards, and red yarn. Stiles pins the final piece of research to the board and steps back to examine it. Though he’d never admit it, he does think it somewhat resembles a collage.

“Shit, what time is it?” Murphy asks.

“Dunno,” he mumbles through the pencil between his teeth, gripping a second loosely in his hand. A third pencil behind Stiles’ ear falls to the floor. He gathers all three and slaps them down onto the table.

Murphy pushes the sleeve of Stiles’ flannel—the one he’d forced her to borrow when she started shivering—up her arm to check her father’s watch.

The cool air hits Murphy’s exposed forearm. Though she’d never admit it, she does think the flannel is one of the warmest and most comfortable items of clothing she’s ever worn.

“Fuck, it’s almost 1,” she groans and scrambles to gather her books. “I gotta get home. I have an 8 a.m. tomorrow morning.”

“Technically, you have an 8 a.m. _this_ morning,” Stiles corrects. Murphy shoots him an unamused glare. “Right, not helping. Do you want me to walk you to your car?”

“I don’t drive,” she huffs.

“You _walked_ here? Carrying half your weight in textbooks?”

“Yes,” Murphy mocks, “I walked five miles with six textbooks weighing a grand total of fifty motherfucking pounds. No, you dipshit, I took the bus.”

“Let me drive you home, then.”

Murphy takes a moment to consider how much worse a five mile walk back to her dorm in the middle of the night would be compared to a five minute car ride with Stiles Stilinski. The thick exhale comes out of her more like a grunt than a reluctant sigh. “Fine.”

Stiles grins and swipes his keys off the table. He tries to take some of the books out of Murphy’s arms, but is only able to grab one, snatching his hand away after he meets her steely stare. He leads her toward his car.

Pointing to a faded blue, beat up, decades-old Jeep, Murphy snickers, “Ha, I wonder what poor fuck drives that piece of shit.”

“Hey!” Stiles shouts, jumping in front of Murphy, nearly sending the books flying out of her arms. “No one makes fun of my Jeep.”

“Oh, god,” Murphy breathes, “this is _your_ piece of shit?”

“Yes—I mean, no! This is… It’s my Jeep!”

“I’m sorry,” Murphy winces.

“It’s okay, you didn’t know. Just don’t insult the Jeep again and we won’t have a problem.”

“Oh, no,” Murphy smirks, mock concern plastered to her face, “I meant, ‘I’m sorry you drive this piece of shit.’”

Stiles purses his lips and paces away, attempting to cool down. “Alright, that’s it. You can walk home. Alone. In the dark. Go get murdered for all I care!”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Murphy snickers.

“No, wait,” he groans begrudgingly, “I don’t want you getting murdered. I’d rather not pin your face to my crime board and have to look at it every day.”

Murphy brings her hand to her chest and feigns adoration, “You’d investigate _my_ murder? I’m touched.”

“Just get in the damn car.”

Murphy smiles to herself and stacks the textbooks in the backseat. A silver shimmer catches her eye. She lifts the aluminum handle. “Uh, Stiles?”

He twists around in the driver’s seat. “Yeah?”

“Why do you have a baseball bat in your backseat?”

“It’s a long story…”

Murphy drops the bat and slides into the passenger’s seat. She clicks the buckle and yanks on the seatbelt, locking it in place.

“Hey, hey, easy there,” Stiles chastises. “This baby’s lasted me a long time. I’d like to keep it that way.”

Stiles shifts the car into reverse and whips out of the parking lot. Murphy grips the side of the seat with white knuckles as Stiles makes a particularly sharp turn.

“Where do you live?” Stiles asks.

“Seton Hall.”

“A dorm? Aren’t you a senior?” 

“I’m an RA.” Murphy tightens her grip on seat.

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“Oh, fuck off,” she snipes.

The engine sputters and the Jeep slows to a stop. “Dammit,” Stiles groans as the headlights flicker off.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t worry, this happens all the time.” Stiles slides out of the car and pops the hood. He peeks out the side. “Hey, can you pass me the toolbox under your seat?”

Murphy brings it to Stiles.

“Thank you,” he sings as he clicks the toolbox open, revealing an assortment of wrenches and a roll of duct tape.

Murphy grabs a wrench and examines it. “This is your toolbox?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s just wrenches and tape.”

“Hold this,” Stiles demands as he thrusts the tape roll into Murphy’s hands.

Murphy peers under the hood to see the engine covered in duct tape. “Jesus fucking Christ!” she exclaims. “How are you not dead, driving around like this?”

“Oh, it’s a miracle I’m not dead already to begin with,” Stiles laughs.

“You are pure mischief, aren’t you?”

The wrench droops in Stiles’ hand. He dips his head between his shoulders. The words float from his mouth in a breathy tone, an edge of harsh pain hidden in them, “My mom used to call me that.”

Murphy’s heartbeat falters at the word ‘mom,’ then again at ‘used to.’ She grasps the pendant around her neck on instinct. “Is she dead?”

Stiles cranes his neck and locks eyes with Murphy. “Yeah, just over ten years ago.”

“I’d say I’m sorry, but I know that doesn’t help.”

Stiles straightens and inches toward Murphy. “You, too?”

Murphy nods and wraps her jacket tighter around her body. “They were in a car accident a month after my eighteenth birthday, both of them.”

“Both?”

Murphy smacks her lips together and closes her eyes. She rests her hand over her father’s watch and focuses on the sound of her breathing.

Stiles clears his throat and swipes the back of his hand against his sniffling nose. “I almost lost my dad once. For a while there, I really thought it was just gonna be me. I barely survived a day with that feeling. How the hell have you survived four years of it?”

“Well, I haven’t survived four years of it yet,” she chuckles uncomfortably. Murphy turns away from him and wipes the sleeves of Stiles’ flannel under her eyes. “Fixed yet?” she asks as she turns back around.

He doesn’t press further. “Turn the engine for me and find out.”

Murphy drops the tape and wrench in her hands back into the toolbox, bounces to the driver’s seat, and twists the key. The engine starts. Stiles punches his fist in the air victoriously. He drops down in front of the steering wheel as Murphy climbs over the console into the passenger’s seat.

“Uh, would you… uh…” Stiles stammers, holding the toolbox out to Murphy and gesturing to the space under her seat. She takes it from him and shoves it under.

They drive in a weighted silence, filled with painful shared experiences neither of them want to think about.

Stiles pulls up to Seton Hall. “Need any help with your books?”

“I think I can handle it,” Murphy snickers.

“Oh, right, you don’t need help from anyone, do you?”

“That’s right,” Murphy quips. She sucks in her bottom lip to hide her smile and steps out of the Jeep. Stiles grabs her books out of the backseat and stacks them on the ground beside her. She thanks him.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “Should be thanking you for helping me get the car started again.”

“Please, don’t. I do not want to be associated with your piece of shit car.”

“What’d I say about shitting on my Jeep like that?” 

“Not to?” Murphy teases.

Stiles shakes his head, still smiling. “I’ll see you Friday then. We’re gonna solve our case before everyone else, I’m sure of it.”

“I expect nothing less of myself,” Murphy agrees. “You, on the other hand? Not so sure.”

“I’m gonna stop arguing with you now, because I have a feeling it’ll just lead to a screaming match in the middle of the street and I don’t think anyone wants to deal with that on a Wednesday night.”

“Thursday morning, technically,” Murphy sneers.

Stiles laughs and locks eyes with her.

Murphy feels blood rise to her face, flushing her cheeks pink. Her shaky palms become clammy as the nervous sweat gathers there. With her eyes still fixed on Stiles, she breathes shallowly.

She takes a step forward.

Stiles’ gaze drops to Murphy’s panting chest, hypnotized by the subtle rise and fall of her breasts beneath his flannel. Under the ominous glow of the streetlamps, Stiles can see the outline of Murphy’s bra through her shirt.

He takes a step forward.

“Oh, your flannel,” Murphy comments, catching onto Stiles’ stare.

Murphy starts to shimmy out of one sleeve when Stiles protests, “Don’t worry about it. You can get it back to me tomorrow.”

“You really trust me, don’t you?”

She takes a step forward.

Stiles shakes his head and blinks his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sure you’re aware of how cozy this is and how good it smells. Plus, I’ve always had sticky fingers when it comes to clothes that aren’t mine.” Murphy immediately regrets the innuendo as it falls from her lips.

He takes a step forward.

Stiles snorts, “Well, you’re gonna have to see me at least every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for the next twelve weeks, so I have a feeling I’ll be able to get it back from you eventually.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Murphy teases.

She takes a final step forward.

Murphy feels Stiles’ hot breath on her face as he asks, “You sure you don’t want help carrying those books up to your room?”

“Now that you mention it, I could probably use an extra set of hands.”

Stiles bobs his head. “Okay.”

With three books in his arms and three books in hers, Murphy leads Stiles to her dorm room. When she unlocks the door, Stiles bursts through and drops the textbooks onto the desk. He struggles to catch his breath. “You walk up that many stairs everyday? Don’t you have an elevator?”

“Yeah.”

“So, what? Is it broken or something?”

“No, I just don’t like to take the elevator.”

“So, you just made me walk up seven flights of stairs with thirty pounds of criminology research in my hands when there was a perfectly good elevator in this building?”

“Yes, I did,” Murphy says teasingly.

“Asshole,” Stiles laughs. Murphy takes measured steps toward him and forces him back against the door. He gulps, “I should probably go.”

“Yeah, probably,” Murphy purrs. She tilts her head to the side and reaches behind Stiles, brushing the side of his ribcage. Stiles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, smelling the tangy orange scent wafting from her hair.

She twists the doorknob and pulls, forcing Stiles’ chest against hers. “See you Friday,” she smirks and steps back, allowing him easy access through the door.

“Uh-huh, see ya,” he chirps and dashes out.


	7. Chapter 7

# FRIDAY, JANUARY 25, 7:27 P.M., EVERMAY APARTMENTS, APT. C24

Murphy bustles into Stiles’ apartment and flings her backpack onto the floor with abandon. The books thud on the stained carpeting, shaking the entire unit’s floor.

“Okay,” she pants. Murphy takes a calming breath and prepares herself for the heinous words about to come out of her mouth. “I am willing to admit the murderer may not be Dr. Hugh Howard.”

Stiles’ face lights up, his mouth gaping in shock, as Murphy explains, “The more I research the Black Dahlia—the _actual_ Black Dahlia—the more differences I see. It pains me to say this, but I may have drawn a conclusion prematurely without considering the evidence in full.”

A sneaky sneer crosses Stiles’ face, the same expression a child who deferred blame onto another may sport.

“But you can’t write Howard off completely ‘cause you don’t want me to be right,” Murphy insists.

“Fine,” Stiles says, sly grin growing cheekier by the second, “so long as you don’t write off the others ‘cause _you_ wanna be right.”

“Deal,” she agrees.

Stiles lounges on the sofa with his arm stretched out on top of the cushions and perches his right ankle on his left knee. “What made you change your mind?” he asks.

“I dunno, the answer seemed too easy—even though, in reality, the answer is usually the easy one.”

Murphy continues, “I have a feeling Dalton wants to fuck with us a bit. He must’ve known I’d figure it out…” she trails off and begins to pace in front of Stiles.

“How would he know that?”

“You’ve met me,” she says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Trust me, he knows.”

“You got any new theories then?”

“Actually…” she sings, rushing to her backpack, fishing through it, and pulling out a photo. “I do.”

Murphy pins the photo to the crime board: an older woman, dripping in classic Hollywood glamour.

Murphy waves her arms in front of the photo like Vanna White. “Annabelle Ainsworth,” she introduces.

Stiles approaches the board, his brow furrowed, deep in thought. “Annabelle Ainsworth,” he repeats.

“She’s the only person mentioned in our case file that isn’t based on a real suspect.”

“Where’d you get the picture?”

“Google.”

“Nice,” Stiles snickers. His brow furrows again as he adds, “She couldn’t’ve done it alone.”

“No, she couldn’t’ve.” Murphy wraps yellow yarn around the pin above Annabelle’s picture and guides it across the board, wrapping it around the pushpin by Allan Allens.

“Hell, you might be right,” Stiles says.

“I know,” Murphy boasts, grinning ear to ear.

“We still have to make sure the evidence stacks up, but this is a valid theory,” Stiles beams.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Stiles and Murphy lock eyes. Anticipation rumbles in their chests as their hearts pound at the same frantic pace.

Murphy steps closer to Stiles and places her hand on his shoulder. “Oh, fuck,” she mumbles, “I forgot your flannel.”

“You’re a bad liar,” Stiles laughs. 

“Might be.”

Murphy trails her fingers from Stiles’ shoulder down his back, resting them just above his hip. She tightens her fist around the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

Stiles closes his eyes, disappointment crossing his face. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what you’re doing.” He brushes her hand off and crosses to the other side of the room.

“What’s your problem?” Murphy snarls.

“My problem is you being a total dick most of the time, then all the sudden, you’re… that.”

Murphy’s heart sinks in her chest, dragging her stomach up with it. She swallows the bile rising in her throat.

“Why are you doing this?” Stiles adds. “Don’t you hate me or something?”

“I don’t _hate_ you.” Murphy steps toward Stiles again. He steps back, maintaining their distance.

Rage ripples through Murphy’s body, a rage she doesn’t understand, a rage that is entirely inexplicable and unjustifiable.

“How do you feel about me then?” Stiles presses.

After a drawn out sigh, she answers, “I’m… indifferent toward you, I guess.”

“Wow, that’s great. Makes me feel real good about myself. Thanks for that, Murph.” The sickening sarcasm in his voice slices at Murphy’s ears like a freshly sharpened blade. He continues, “What are you trying to do anyway? Are you trying to sleep with me or something?”

“So, what if I am?”

“So, what if you are?! You just told me you don’t care about me, and yet—”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Don’t bring semantics into this,” he growls. “That is _exactly_ what you said.”

“Well,” she hums, nonplussed, “do you want to?”

“No!” he screams.

“Why not? There are plenty of people out there who would jump at an opportunity like this!”

“Not me.”

“Then, explain it to me!” 

“Because—” Stiles’ voice catches in his throat, “Because I don’t wanna have sex with someone who doesn’t care about me… Do you?”

Murphy shrugs and says simply, “Yes.”

“Why?” His breathy tone is filled with a betrayal he doesn’t understand, a betrayal that is entirely inexplicable and unjustifiable.

“‘Cause I like to.”

The cool sharpness of her response reminds Stiles of a deadly set of gnashing fangs. “Why?” he asks again.

“I just do!” she yells. “Forget it, fuck you!”

Murphy swipes her backpack off the floor and dashes through the door, slamming it shut behind her. She flies down the stairs and out into the bitter chill. She yanks her phone out of her pocket and shoots a quick text.

“Hold up!” Stiles screeches, skidding to a halt in front of her, heaving. “Will you please stop running off like that? I haven’t played lacrosse in years. I am impressively out of shape.”

“Leave me alone, Stiles,” she grumbles, attempting to step past him.

“I’m really tired of you pulling shit like this every time you leave, like you’re looking for an excuse to go,” he pants. “That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

Murphy clenches her jaw and tenses her muscles; her fight-or-flight instinct activating, kicking into overdrive.

Stiles continues, “You’re doing this to yourself, y’know. Making yourself miserable. Being an asshole all the time so no one can really get to know you.”

“You’re a piece of shit,” she spits. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“You think I don’t know that? That’s the whole damn problem! I _don’t_ know anything about you! But, I want to. Because I think there’s more to you than this stuck-up, tragic, condescending bitch you play.”

Murphy’s eyes bore into Stiles’.

He exhales, “I think you do what you do to keep your distance. And, I think it’s worked in the past, so you think it’s gonna work on me. But, it’s not. I’ve been through some real shit and the ringer you’re putting me through is nothing compared to that. I can’t make you stay. I can’t make you get to know me. I can’t make you let me in. But, for what it’s worth, I really want you to.”

Murphy wills her body to move, but her muscles have turned to stone, freezing her there in the middle of the street. Thousands of outcomes flicker through her panicked, overactive mind.

_He’s idealizing me. He doesn’t really want to know me; he just thinks he does, because I won’t let him. _

_He thinks he’s some kind of knight in shining armor, coming to save me. He’ll realize I don’t need saving and get bored. _

_He’s a detective; I’m a mystery. Once he realizes he can’t solve me, he’s gone. _

_He doesn’t mean it._

Murphy studies Stiles’ unwavering gaze. She believes any of her theories may be true, even though she doesn’t have the evidence to support them. But, regardless, she believes she is right.

She will stop at nothing to prove it. This, she swears.

Stiles holds his arms out in a T-shape. “So, will you come back inside and help me solve the case?”

Murphy softens at the vulnerability in his stance, his words, his everything. “I—”

A yellow Ford pickup truck rounds the corner, wheels squealing on the pavement, jolting to a stop in front of them. The driver’s side window rolls down.

“You still need that ride?” the handsome athlete calls from behind the wheel. He nods at Stiles and says, “Oh, hey, man. I’m Mitch.”

Stiles squints at Murphy and points to the athlete. “This guy? Really, Murph? _This guy_?”

“He came, didn’t he?” she hisses.

Murphy climbs into Mitch’s truck.

“Hey, babe.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Oo-kay. Yours or mine?”

“Just take me home.”

Murphy watches Stiles disappear as the truck speeds through the parking lot and out of the Evermay Apartments complex.

She settles into the seat and clings to the seatbelt.

“You okay?” Mitch asks, his voice tender and soft.

“I don’t wanna talk.” Murphy lolls her head to the side and focuses on Mitch’s defined muscles. She grazes her fingers against his bulging bicep and murmurs, “I wanna be distracted.”


	8. Chapter 8

# FRIDAY, JANUARY 25, 11:23 P.M., SETON HALL

Murphy slugs Mitch’s t-shirt at his chest after sticking her arms through her own. She shuffles to her mini-fridge and pulls out two Coronas, popping the bottle caps and handing one to Mitch.

Mitch tugs his head through his t-shirt and shakes his fingers through his tangled hair. “Thanks.”

Murphy takes a long swig and wipes the excess dribble from her lips. She waits for Mitch to take a drink, somewhat regretting giving him such a large bottle without knowing how long he’ll take to drink it.

Mitch takes a small sip.

Murphy sighs and accepts he’ll be sticking around awhile.

Mitch swallows. “Can I ask you something?”

“Depends on what you’re gonna ask me.” Murphy gulps from the half-full (half-empty) bottle.

“So, we’ve been sleeping together for a while—”

“Okay, I’m gonna stop you there.” She places her bottle down on the bedside table and squares her shoulders with Mitch. “Yes, we’re fucking. Yes, we’ve been doing it for a while. Yes, I’m enjoying it, like, _really_ enjoying it. But, if you’re abouta ask me to hang out with you sometime without fucking, the answer is no.”

Murphy pats the center of his chest, picks up her drink, finishes it, and drops the bottle into the recycling bin by the door.

“Actually, no. We’re definitely on the same page there. What I was gonna ask is… Can I go down on you sometime? We’ve been doing it for a year now, but we never—”

“Oh, that reminds me, did you get your test results yet?”

“No, not yet. I still think it’s funny you make me get tested even though we’ve been having sex exclusively for so long.”

“If you’re sexually active, you should be getting tested every six months.”

“I don’t think that’s right…”

“For the amount of sex we’re having, it is.”

Mitch lets out a charming chuckle. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yeah, no, sorry, bud.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’m just not really into that.”

“I’m not gonna pressure you to go down on me or anything.”

“No, I know that. I just don’t like it, is all. Never have. And, I don’t think I ever will.”

_Too intimate_, she thinks to herself.

“Alright then. See you Saturday.” Mitch chugs his Corona, rounds up his belongings, and jets out the door.

It’s moments like these that make Murphy remember why she chose him in the first place.


	9. Chapter 9

# SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 4:56 P.M., UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

Murphy has been dodging Stiles’ calls for days, and not because of her aversion to answering the telephone. She’s also skipped three of Professor Dalton’s classes to avoid seeing him, which is something she’s never done before; not even when she’s been sick, much to the chagrin of her classmates.

Murphy examines the hole on the hem of her ratty t-shirt and the hole in the knee of her oldest pair of jeans. Even in such a disheveled state, she appreciates that the garments match in their own way, and that she hadn’t even done it on purpose. At least, not consciously.

Murphy clutches her books to her chest and crosses the library threshold, trudging with her head down toward her preferred cubicle in the back corner on the south side of the building.

She slumps into the seat, begins unpacking her study materials, and starts setting them out on the desk, when a familiar voice whispers in her ear.

“Knew I’d find you here.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Stiles!” she shouts, twisting in the chair to face him, in addition to a dozen disgruntled students. “Sorry,” she mutters, raising a hand in apology. The students return to their books and browsing.

“What are you doing here?” Murphy hisses.

Stiles drags over the chair from the cubicle behind Murphy’s and sits. “We have a case to solve, remember? Unless you forgot. You obviously forgot you were taking Criminology 301 considering you haven’t been to class in a week.”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“Clearly,” Stiles mumbles, looking Murphy up and down, eventually meeting her deadly glare.

“Are you trying to get punched in the face?”

“Not really, no.”

“Then, stop acting so goddamn punch-able,” Murphy huffs and returns to her books.

“We have to finish this project whether you want to or not. I know last week was a little… awkward, to say the least, but we still have to work together for the rest of the semester. So, what do you say? Can I stop giving rally speeches and pep-talks now? ‘Cause I’m starting to run out of motivational phrases here.”

Murphy twists again to face him. “Fine, but this time we set ground rules.”

“I love rules, love breaking ‘em.”

“Stiles,” she glowers.

“But, not these. Won’t be breaking these rules, nope.”

Murphy rolls her eyes, her voice slick with dread. “First, you don’t try to get to know me. I’m not a mystery you can solve. I’m a real person and I don’t want you digging around in my life, looking for answers to why I am the way that I am. Trust me, you won’t find any. Second, I promise I won’t try to fuck you ever again. You’re officially sexually repulsive to me—”

“That seems a bit harsh,” Stiles winces. “Do I have to be sexually _repulsive_?”

“Yes,” Murphy confirms without missing a beat. “Third, we can’t be assholes to each other. You hear my voice right now? It’s been hoarse for over a week, ‘cause I’ve been screaming so much lately. At you.”

“Well, that’s not entirely my fault…”

“I know that, dickhead. Will you just let me get the fuck through this? I’m doing the best I can, okay?”

“Wait… Is this supposed to be an apology?” A sly smirk creeps across Stiles’ face.

“No... Yes… I dunno, they’re rules, okay?”

“Okay, they’re rules. But they’re also an apology.”

“I never said that.”

“But, you did.”

“But, I didn’t!” Murphy snaps, receiving another round of death glares from the surrounding bodies. “If it helps you sleep at night, you can call it an apology, pal.”

“Oh, I will.”

“So, that’s settled,” Murphy sighs, relieved.

“I have a rule,” Stiles offers. “You have to at least pretend you like being around me. Just a little bit. Not asking you to be my best friend, just to tolerate me. You do that, we’ll be fine.”

“Fake it ‘til you make it, huh?”

“Something like that, yeah,” Stiles snickers. “So, we’re in agreement then?” Murphy nods and shakes his hand, solidifying the pact. Stiles sighs, beaming, “Now, can we please get out of here? We don’t have a great track record for being in libraries together.”

Murphy packs up her things, following Stiles out the library and toward his trusty Jeep.

She slides into the passenger’s seat and says, “Y’know, Stiles, you really do have an unnatural attachment to this Jeep. You realize that, right?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“Maybe you should listen.”

Stiles takes a moment before shaking his head. “Nah.”


	10. Chapter 10

# WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 7:43 A.M., WINSTON HALL, LECTURE HALL

Stiles sidles into his seat next to Murphy’s and passes her a small, brown paper bag.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“Breakfast.”

“I don’t eat breakfast.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I brought you some.”

Murphy peeks into the bag warily, unsure if this is some sick practical joke and a fake snake will jump out.

“Just eat the damn thing,” Stiles groans.

Murphy pulls out the blueberry muffin and takes a bite. Then, another. And, another. With crumbs on her chin and a full mouth, she thanks Stiles, “Fank youf.”

“You’re welcome,” he laughs.

Professor Dalton waltzes into the room, clicks the door shut, and flings his bag onto the table at the front of the lecture hall. An eerie edge settles over the class, as no one has seen Dalton so chipper before—not even after his divorce settlement swung in his favor.

Dalton sighs, smiles, and says, “Isn’t it a great fucking day?”

The collective jaw of every student in the room drops, except for Stiles’ because the jaw of his constantly gaping mouth was already dropped to begin with.

“Today, we’re doing jack _shit_,” Dalton cackles.

“Professor Dalton, are you okay?” a small voice from the back of the lecture hall asks.

“I am fan-fucking-tastic. Thank you for asking, Kelly. Found out the guy my ex-wife left me for, left her for a twenty-two-year-old professional YouTuber, so I have literally never been better. So, yeah… Do whatever the fuck you want today. Just talk amongst yourselves of whatever, I don’t give a shit.”

A shudder crawls up Murphy’s spine at Dalton’s phrasing.

‘Amongst’ is one of the words Murphy likes the least. _Too many letters_, she thinks, _Just say ‘among’ and leave it at that_.

Stiles groans, “Ugh, how annoying is that?”

“Is what?” Murphy asks.

“_Amongst_,” he repeats mockingly, “Just say among and be done with it for Christ’s sake…”

Murphy pushes her glasses up the slope of her nose before turning to Stiles, a puzzled expression on her face, her eyebrows crinkle so close together it appears as though they might merge into one.

“What?” Stiles snorts.

“It’s nothing, I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Ha, funny.”

“Yeah, funny…”

Murphy’s eyes meet Stiles’ honey-colored ones and for a moment she considers the two of them may not be so different after all. I mean, really, most successful stable friendships are based on a mutual respect for grammar, aren’t they?


	11. Chapter 11

# FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 8:39 P.M., EVERMAY APARTMENTS, APT. C24

Stiles glances at Murphy out of the corner of his eye—her head dipped low, tip of her nose almost brushing against the paper, top row of teeth covering her bottom lip in full. She scribbles in tiny lettering, the top lines of the capitals barely reaching the middle of the college-ruled lines. She flicks her gaze to her laptop, the skin between her brows pinched and wrinkled.

Doing a double-take, she notices Stiles’ eyes on her. Murphy pushes her glasses up, rebalancing them on the bridge of her nose, and grumbles, “What?”

“Nothing,” Stiles laughs.

“What’d I do?” Murphy laughs back, her tone matching his.

“You’ve got…” Stiles gestures vaguely at her face.

“What?”

Still gesturing and laughing, he specifies, “Pencil lead.”

“Where?”

Stiles touches the tip of his nose with his forefinger. “You’re fucking joking,” Murphy grimaces.

“I’m not,” Stiles wheezes between the consistent string of lighthearted laughter.

Murphy rubs her nose with the back of her hand furiously. “Did I get it?”

“Not quite.”

Murphy rolls her eyes. “Can you just get it for me, then?”

Stiles gulps before reaching over and brushing Murphy’s nose with his thumb. He feels her breath on his hand as she exhales, warming his cracked knuckles.

Murphy fixes her gaze on him. She watches his tongue dart out his mouth and swipe across his lips as he concentrates.

Their eyes lock as Stiles draws his hand away from Murphy’s face.

“There,” he breathes.

“Thanks,” she whispers, her tone as quiet and breathless as his. She clears her throat. “So, where were we?”

“Analyzing the suspect list,” Stiles answers.

“Right!” she exclaims. “I still don’t know why we’re doing this if we’ve already figured out Annabelle Ainsworth and Allan Allens did it.”

“Again? Jesus…” Stiles weaves his fingers through his hair and tugs on the strands. “How many times do we have to go over this, Murph? We need _evidence_, the tangible kind. You can’t go off intuition alone on this stuff.”

“I know _that_, I’m not a dipshit,” she scoffs. “I just don’t understand why we’re still looking into the other suspects, too.”

“Because,” Stiles sighs exasperatedly, “as badly as you don’t want to consider it, there’s still a chance you’re wrong.”

“I really don’t think I am, though.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that a few times before,” he snipes. “I know _you_ don’t think you’re wrong, but that doesn’t mean you’re not.” Murphy opens her mouth to speak, but Stiles raises a finger to silence her. “If you say you know you’re right one more time, I’m gonna reconsider my rule about hitting a girl.”

Murphy purses her lips together, the corners of her mouth turning up into an amused grin. She bites over her lower lip, but an impish snicker tumbles from her mouth anyway.

Stiles glares at her as she giggles, her grin stretched wide, like a kindergartener who hasn’t quite learned how to smile yet.

“Real nice,” he quips, “you’re a stubborn dick, y’know that?”

“You may have mentioned that before…” Murphy jokes.

Stiles tries to keep his face straight, but a bout of giggles tumble from his mouth in return. The two of them sit there at Stiles’ kitchen table, laughing stitches into their sides, forgetting why—and wondering how—they ever loathed each other in the first place.

Murphy doesn’t claim she’s correct for the rest of the evening. She’s shockingly cooperative as Stiles runs through the suspects, applying each piece of evidence to each potential murderer.

This behavior is especially surprising to Stiles, almost disappointing. As horrible as he thinks it sounds, he enjoys bickering with her. He takes satisfaction in winning an argument against this combative, aggressive, tenacious girl; the girl with eyes as big as her balls.

Murphy notices this change in herself, too. For some reason, she doesn’t want to fight with Stiles. But, she can’t put her finger on it. All she knows is it’s not that she finds undeniable validity in his theories.

She considers that maybe she’s too tired to argue with him. But, when has world-class ass-kiss and asshole Daisy Murphy ever lost the stamina to fight back?

She realizes she’s distracted herself with the thought as Stiles ends his rant and ‘mic-drops’ his pencil to the floor.

“Bam,” he boasts, raising his arms proudly in the air. Murphy stares back at him with squinted eyes and a gaping mouth, not much unlike Stiles’ resting face. “You didn’t get any of that, did you?” he asks.

“Not really,” she apologizes. “I kinda zoned out.”

“We should probably call it a night. It’s getting late anyway. I’ll drive you home.”

“You don’t have to,” Murphy says, dismissing his offer with a swat of her hand.

“What? You got another chauffer?” Stiles jeers.

“Yeah, I actually told Mitch to pick me up here ‘round 9.”

Stiles’ face falls. “Oh, you did?”

“Yeah,” Murphy gulps, “he was already supposed to be coming by mine tonight anyway, so it just made more sense.”

“Right, yeah, totally,” Stiles responds, voice cracking. Murphy hears a twinge of jealousy in his tone.

She sighs and clicks her tongue. “So… I should get going then.”

“We’re still on for Monday night, right?”

“Uh, yeah.” Murphy turns on her heel toward the door, then whips around to face Stiles again. “Hey, so do you wanna study for the midterm together? It’s in, like, two weeks and since we’re already working on this case or whatever—”

“Yes,” Stiles interrupts hastily. He scoffs and relaxes his tone, “I mean, yeah, sure, why not? It’s convenient, if nothing else.”

“Exactly,” Murphy agrees. The air hangs between them, thick and palpable, crackling with anxiety and discomfort. Murphy breaks the silence. “We should probably start studying tomorrow night, then.”

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea. It’s always good to get a jump on studying. You know what they say…”

“No?” Murphy responds. “What do they say?”

“That it’s, uh, better to… um… start studying earlier rather than later, y’know, ‘cause if you cram… uh, you’ll fail.”

“Eloquently put,” Murphy sneers.

“Yeah…” Stiles dips his head in defeat and takes a sharp exhale before looking back up at Murphy, embarrassment in his eyes.

“Do you want to meet at the Canteen this time instead?” Murphy blurts.

“Like, the coffee shop?”

“Yeah, y’know, we could get some caffeine, give ourselves the jitters, before we start studying. Who knows, maybe it’ll make you fidget less.”

“There’s no way for us to know without trying.”

“Great, so Canteen, ‘round 6?”

“Yeah,” Stiles grins and repeats, “Canteen, ‘round 6.”

Stiles and Murphy stand there in the middle of his apartment, simply staring at one another. Each is desperate to look away, but neither can bring themselves to tear their eyes from the other.

Murphy bobs her head and breaks the thick silence surrounding them. “Awesome… I’m gonna go now.”

“Yeah, you probably should. Don’t want to keep _Mitch_ waiting.”

Murphy narrows her eyes at Stiles and chuckles before swiping her books and backpack off the table and heading out the door.

Stiles shuts the door behind her. He rubs his hands over his face and drags his long fingers through his disheveled hair as he shuffles over to the kitchen table. He grips the top of Murphy’s chair and swears he can still feel her warmth in it. He dips his head between his shoulders and curses under his breath.

“_Shit_.”

He does this, because he knows he is falling in love.


	12. Chapter 12

# MONDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 5:45 P.M., THE CANTEEN

Murphy stumbles into the Canteen at quarter to 6 and is surprised to see Stiles sitting a table in the back, coffee cup and study materials already lined up in front of him.

Murphy takes steady steps toward him. She holds her body tense, in the same way an unsuspecting hiker may approach a wild animal in its natural habitat: with unbridled idiocy, an underlying death wish, and considerable intrigue.

“You’re here already,” she comments skeptically.

“Yes, I am,” Stiles beams. “Wanted to get here before you did just to see this dumb look on your face.”

“Was it worth it?”

“Oh, it was way more than worth it,” he laughs.

“How long have you been here?”

“Like an hour?”

“You got here at 4:45 just to make sure you got here before me?”

“When you put it that way, I sound like a dumbass.”

“You _are_ a dumbass.”

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbles jokingly.

Murphy slides into the chair across from him. “So, where do we start?”

Stiles stands and pulls Murphy up by the shoulders. “With a cup of coffee,” he demands.

Between muffled giggles and exasperated head shakes, Murphy manages to order, then returns to her seat with a cup of coffee—black and bitter, like jet fuel—and a rather satisfied Stiles.

She takes a sip of the drink, burning her tongue, but refusing to acknowledge it. “There. Happy now?”

“Very,” Stiles smirks.

“You’ll do anything to avoid studying, won’t you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Trying to get you to focus is like herding fucking cats, that’s why.”

“Hey, you know I have a neurological—”

“Neurological disorder,” Murphy finishes for him. “You’ve mentioned that way more than the average person does. I still say you should get some Adderall and be done with it. Who knows? Could make you more tolerable in general.”

“You’re so mean,” Stiles jokes.

“Some might say it’s a talent,” Murphy teases.

“Yeah, but some might also say it’s just being a dick.” Stiles snaps his head back, cocks his head, and gasps sarcastically, “Look at who’s distracting who now!”

“Your idiocy must be rubbing off on me,” Murphy grins knowingly. She expects her comment to burrow under Stiles’ skin, but receives a genuine laugh instead.

Murphy points to the colored writing tools laid out on Stiles’ notebook. “I see you got highlighters.”

“I guess you’re rubbing off on me, too.”

“Even though you only have red, yellow, and green…”

“Hey! I have a system that works for me.”

“It’s a good system,” Murphy chirps.

“No, it is a good—Wait, did you just _compliment_ the system?”

Murphy purses her lips and ignores him. She pulls her books and highlighters out of her bag and lays them out on the table. Whipping the pencil out of her braid, she says, “Let’s just fucking study.”

The hours fly by as Murphy and Stiles study together.

Well, to call it ‘studying’ is rather generous.

The hours fly by as Murphy and Stiles occupy a table in the Canteen, both talking nonstop, arguing mostly. After Murphy, speaking of the Canteen, references _Star Wars_, Stiles’ mouth is unstoppable.

The last remaining barista interrupts their argument. “Look, fuckheads, we closed a half hour ago.”

Murphy glances down at her watch, both hands set on 12.

“Okay, okay,” Stiles gripes, “just tell us which one of us is right. Who shot first: Han or Greedo?”

“If I answer, will you leave?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” the barista groans, “Han did.”

“I told you!” Stiles screeches, taunting Murphy with an outstretched forefinger.

“Oh, c’mon, whatever. Who gives a flying fuck anyway?”

“You’re only saying that ‘cause you’re wrong.”

“No, I’m not,” she hisses. “I genuinely don’t care.”

“You spent two hours arguing about this,” the barista interjects.

“Yes, we did,” Stiles confirms, promptly whipping his head back around to the barista. “Wait… Two hours?”

“Yeah,” the barista snipes, “it’s been really annoying.”

“Well, shit,” he laughs. “I guess we’re both gonna fail the midterm, huh?”

Murphy shakes her head, trying not to laugh at the childlike joy on his face. “We should go.”

“Yeah, you should,” the barista barks.

“Sorry,” Murphy winces, hastily gathering her things and shoving them haphazardly into her backpack. She and Stiles rush out of the coffee shop and into the university courtyard.

The wintry air nips at their noses as the iron lamps lining the brick walkways cast an eerie yellow glow.

“This is creepy, isn’t it?” Stiles comments.

“Really fucking creepy,” Murphy agrees, cupping her hands over her mouth and breathing into them.

“Want me to walk you home?” Stiles asks. “There could be murderers lurking around in the dark… or rapists.”

Murphy scoffs, “My dorm is, like, half a mile away. I think I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, I _know_ you can.”

Stiles and Murphy’s eyes lock, heat rising between them, palpable, almost tangible. Stiles breaks the silence and says, “I thought of another rule.”

“Did you now?”

“It’s a very important rule.”

“Is it really?” Murphy mocks.

Stiles takes in a deep breath with his eyes closed, already submerged in the joke, and says, “You have to promise you won’t fall in love with me.”

Murphy bursts into laughter, stitches rapidly forming in her sides. She wheezes between breathless giggles, “I think that’s the dumbest motherfucking thing you’ve ever said.”

“Oh, I’m serious,” Stiles responds teasingly, running with the joke. “We’re spending a lot of time together. We still have a good eight weeks or so left ‘til the end of the semester. And, we still haven’t finished our project yet, which means a lot of long nights… the two of us… alone… together. Working in close proximity like this, with the kind of tension we have, it’s a recipe for disaster.”

“You watch too many movies, Stilinski.”

“I know. But, you still have to promise.”

“Fine,” Murphy groans. “I promise.”

“Fantastic, now I can release all the raw sex appeal I’ve been hiding the past month and a half.”

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Murphy snorts, grinning to herself, as she starts down the hill toward Seton Hall. Stiles trips over his feet, flailing as he follows after her.

As they reach the steps leading to the dormitory, Murphy skips ahead of Stiles and whips around to face him. The words tumble out her mouth so quickly they string together.

“Can I ask you a favor without you being weird about it?”

“I dunno if that’s possible, but I’ll try my best.”

“Would you mind coming up to my room with me? I have something I want to show you.”

Stiles hesitates.

Murphy groans, “I’m not gonna try to fuck you again.”

“What do you want me to look at?” he asks warily.

“It’s easier if I just show you.”

Murphy leads Stiles up the seven flights of stairs to her room. She storms inside, leaving the entry wide open. Stiles slips through and eases the door shut. His eyes land on a sight he never expected to see.

“What the hell is that?” Stiles points to the white board standing where a dresser once stood. He drops his jacket to the floor as he approaches it.

The board is covered in crime scene photos and Xeroxed copies of police reports, tacked with patterned strips of washi tape. An assortment of orange, pink, yellow, and blue sticky notes are stuck to the photos and print outs, most sporting question marks scribbled in permanent marker. Three spools of electrical tape rest on the tray below the board: red, yellow, and green.

Stiles runs his finger along a strip of red electrical tape connecting a photo of a torched car to a police report dated June 21, 2015. He trails his finger to the second report dated July 13, 2015, then to the final one dated January 20, 2019.

Stiles pivots, his heel squeaking on the scuffed linoleum, and faces Murphy. “What is this, Murph?”

“This,” she starts, “is what I want your help on. You’re the only one I know who could possibly help me solve this shit. I _need_ you.”

Murphy shoves past him, a manic glimmer in her animated eyes.

“So get this, back in 2015, there was this car crash, right? The car caught fire and the couple inside died and it was very, very sad.” Murphy points to the June 21 police report. “The cops ruled the cause of the fire inconclusive.”

“But, then a couple weeks later, they ruled the fire as arson.” She points to the July 13 police report. “So, case closed, right? Nope, not so fast.”

Murphy squares her shoulders with Stiles’, waving her arms frantically as she finishes, “So now, it’s 2019, right? And, the cops are still trying to solve this case. They’re fucking around over here like, ‘Oh, maybe it’s not arson, maybe it _was_ just an accident.’ So, on January 20 of this year”—she points to the final police report—“they ruled it an automobile malfunction.”

Murphy pitches her hands up onto her hips, panting. Stiles turns to her, brow furrowed, lips pursed, and eyes slanted in skepticism.

“And…?” Stiles presses.

“What do you mean, ‘And’?! Clearly, the cops are covering up what actually happened. Don’t you see?!”

“No,” he sighs. Stiles places his hands on Murphy’s upper arms. His honey brown eyes meet hers. “Murph, is this your parents’ case?”

“Yes, but you have to admit the new ruling is pretty suspicious—”

“No, it’s not. It was an accident.” Stiles points to the second police report. “You see this, here? Where they claim it’s arson? They never found anything at the crime scene that could’ve started the fire. I mean, they don’t even list objects that could’ve started a fire like this at all. There’s literally no evidence supporting the arson theory other than the fact that the car caught on fire.”

“But, it can’t _not_ be arson,” Murphy insists. “You have to look at the bigger picture, right? You taught me that!” Tears stream down Murphy’s cheeks.

Stiles tries to wrap his arms around Murphy’s shoulders and pull her into him, only to receive the pounding of her small fists on his broad chest.

“It can’t be an accident, it can’t!” she cries, falling into his chest. Stiles draws her closer. He places one of his hands on the back of her head, holding her teary face to his pilled flannel.

Stiles places his other hand between her shoulders, rubbing it in circles along her back. “I know you want to make sense of your parents’ death, but you can’t go looking for evidence that isn’t there. Sometimes, the case really is closed.”

Murphy weeps, staining Stiles’ shirt, tugging on the sides of the open flannel, her fingers catching on the buttons. Stiles whispers soothing noises into her ear as he holds onto her tighter and tighter still.


	13. Chapter 13

# FRIDAY, MARCH 8, 9:23 P.M., SETON HALL

Murphy slides off the mattress, abandoning the well-built man in her bed, and pads to her closet. As she flicks through the shirts on hangers, Mitch asks, “Do you think we could fuck at my place sometime? It’s starting to feel a little weird that you’ve never been to my apartment. And, no offense, but fucking in a dorm room isn’t easy.”

Murphy tunes out the deep droning of Mitch’s voice as her hands settle on the soft plaid shirt in her closet. She lifts one of the sleeves to her nose and sniffs; it still smells like him. Murphy slides the shirt off the hanger and buttons it around herself.

“So, what do you say?”

Murphy holds the sleeve against her cheek and inhales again, inhales _him_. A crooked grin stretches across her face.

“Look, Mitch—” Murphy starts.

“Uh-oh, I don’t like where this is going.”

“This has been so much fun, but…”

“I get it,” he interrupts. “It’s that guy, isn’t it?”

“What?!” Murphy squeaks defensively.

Mitch rolls his eyes and catapults off the bed, hastily tugging on his clothes and tying up his heavy boots. He holds his hand out to her.

“Murphy, casually fucking you has been an absolute pleasure.”

“Likewise,” she smiles. A wave of nostalgia washes over her. She almost wants to tell Mitch to stay.

Mitch takes a step back. Glass crunches under his boot.

Murphy turns to see him lifting his heel, revealing her father’s watch, completely crushed under the athlete’s weight.

“What the fuck did you do?” Murphy roars. She dives for the watch, examining the damage: the face is shattered and the hands are stuck ticking at 12:34.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry—”

“Get the fuck out!” she screams.

“Murphy—”

“I said get the fuck out!” Murphy stomps to the door and shoves Mitch through it, slamming it shut behind him. She sinks to the floor, back against the wood, and cradles the mangled metal and leather in her shaking palms. She drags her legs to her chest, rests her forehead on her knees, and sobs.


	14. Chapter 14

# FRIDAY, MARCH 8, 11:32 P.M., EVERMAY APARTMENTS, APT. C24

Murphy grips her bare wrist underneath the kitchen table as she scans her homemade study sheet for what must be the thousandth time. She reads aloud, “So, according to the classical school of thought—”

“Okay, enough of this bullshit,” Stiles claims, slamming his textbook shut and leaping out of his chair. “Get up, let’s go.”

“Uh, I don’t think so,” Murphy protests and points to her study sheet. “The midterm is on Friday and you know Dalton’s test is gonna be absolutely bonkers.”

“Bonkers?” Stiles chuckles.

Murphy glares at him. “I’m exhausted, okay? Sorry if my banter isn’t up to par tonight.” Her shoulders droop as she gripes, “We seriously need to study for this shit.”

“And, we will. I promise. Don’t you trust me?”

“Absolutely not.”

Stiles pauses a moment, head cocked to the side, eyes narrowed, lips pursed, before responding. “Yeah, that’s probably a good call, but seriously.”

Murphy growls under her breath, “Where are you gonna take me?”

“We need a change of scenery.” Stiles shoves his arms through his jacket before tossing Murphy’s into her face.

“We don’t have time for a change of scenery, dickhead—”

Stiles plants his palms on the table. “Murph, I swear to god if I stare at this textbook for one more second, I’m gonna lose my damn mind. So, get off that cute little ass of yours and let’s go.”

A lopsided smirk flashes across Murphy’s face. “Well, when you put it that way…”


	15. Chapter 15

# SATURDAY, MARCH 9, 12:12 A.M., JIMMY’S

“What is this place?” Murphy asks as Stiles leads her into the diner.

“What do mean ‘what is this place’?” he asks, mouth gaping. “It’s Jimmy’s!”

“You really need to stop assuming I know what stuff is.”

Stiles huffs, “It’s the best diner in town. Are you telling me you’ve never been here before?”

“Do I look like the kind of person who hangs out in diners.”

“Well, no, but—” 

“So, stop being a dickhead about it.”

Stiles snickers to himself. He ushers Murphy into a booth by the window and slides into the seat opposite her. “This is the best diner in the entire world. No joke.”

“You’re really hyping this up.”

“Well, it’s very hype-able.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Oh, I _am_.”

Murphy chuckles as she looks through the menu: dozens upon dozens of items, ranging from eggs and bacon to fish and chips. “Whatcha gonna get?”

“I get something different every time, but I’ve been here so many times I’ve tried everything already.”

“Even the steak?” Murphy laughs.

“Yes,” he grimaces, “it gave me lockjaw, but I was determined to eat everything on this menu.”

“That’s dedication.”

“It’s hard work, but someone’s gotta do it.”

“Aren’t you just the American hero?” Murphy jokes.

“What’re you thinking of getting?”

“I dunno, maybe fries or something.”

“Boring!” Stiles sings. “Let me handle this.”

“I’m not gonna let you fucking order for me. I’m a grown-ass adult. I’ll fucking order for myself, thank you very much.”

“Can you lay off the hard-ass, independent hermit thing for, like, two seconds and have a little faith in me?”

The waitress meanders up to the table. She brushes the bright red frizz out of her eyes before asking in a sweet southern drawl, “What can I get y’all today?”

“I will have the bacon and egg burger, medium, with fries and hash browns,” Stiles starts. “She’s gonna have the chicken tenders with fries and hash browns. Oh, and two shakes, chocolate for me, strawberry for her.”

“Comin’ right up, sweetheart,” the waitress sings as she struts away.

“Strawberry shake?” Murphy spits. “I hate milkshakes.”

“Wha…?” Stiles gapes. “You hate… Who the hell hates milkshakes?!”

“I do.”

“Christ, who hurt you?” he whispers.

“I dunno, might’ve had something to do with my parents dying horrifically in a car crash and getting burned alive, but who’s to say?” A sneaky smile creeps across Murphy’s face.

“Oh, she’s doing dark humor now, isn’t she? I think you might be spending too much time with me.”

“I think I might be too, considering you’re probably my best friend.”

“What?” he snorts.

“Well, you’re the person I hang out with the most and I guess I sorta like being around you and think you’re kinda funny or whatever.”

“Oh, my god,” Stiles gasps, “you like me… You actually like me!”

“I didn’t say that,” Murphy says defensively.

“But, you did.”

“But, I didn’t.”

“But, you definitely did.”

“But, I didn’t!” Murphy shouts, receiving several confused glances from the other patrons.

“Sorry ‘bout her,” Stiles apologizes. “She’s a little…” he whistles and circles his forefinger by his temple.

“Oh, fuck off,” Murphy cackles.

Stiles laughs along with her. “You are the most foul-mouthed person I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“Maybe you should try to change that.”

Murphy shakes her head. “Nah.”

The waitress comes over to them, and places the plates and milkshakes onto the table.

“That was fast,” Murphy quips.

“What’d I tell ya?” Stiles beams.

“You literally told me nothing about that.”

“It was implied.”

“It most certainly was not.”

“Eat your damn food.”

Murphy slips her straw into the milkshake and takes a hesitant sip. Stiles watches her eagerly. She locks eyes with him, a disgruntled look and dissatisfied grimace on her face.

“So?” Stiles asks.

“I told you I don’t like milkshakes.”

His face falls. “You hate it.”

She groans, a deep growl rumbling in her chest, “No…”

“You like it?” he smiles.

“Yes,” Murphy growls. “I actually do.”

“You gotta trust me more, Murph,” he jeers. “I’m right a lot more often than you think.”

“Now, we both know that’s a lie.”

The two of them sit there in a comfortable silence, stuffing their faces, snickering at each other’s puffed out cheeks and the dabs of ketchup on the corners of their mouths. Once the milkshake glasses are empty and the plates are clean and they both feel as though they’ll never be able to eat again, the waitress hands them the check.

Stiles slaps his hand down on the receipt before Murphy can get to it. He smiles, “This one’s on me. Seeing you eat at Jimmy’s for the first time was priceless.”

He throws a wad of cash onto the table and meets Murphy’s stare. “Y’know, what this feels like? _A date_.”

Murphy’s eyes widen and she drops her last remaining fry, eliciting a hearty cackle from Stiles, “Oh, my god, your face! I was kidding!”

“That’s not funny, Stilinski. You’re such an asshole.”

“You’re so emotionally repressed it’s almost sad,” he wheezes. “_Almost_.”

“Can we go back to studying now?” Murphy bats her eyelashes mockingly. “Please?”

Stiles shakes his head. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”


	16. Chapter 16

# SATURDAY, MARCH 9, 2:36 A.M., SOUTH STREET

Stiles and Murphy trek back toward his apartment, setting their course straight down the middle road.

Stiles points at Murphy’s wrist. “You’re not wearing your watch.”

“Just noticing that now, are you?”

“Sorry, I don’t stare at your wrists regularly. What happened?” 

“It broke.”

“What?!” Stiles roars, the genuine shock in his voice catching Murphy off guard.

“Mitch stepped on it,” she mumbles.

“I’ll kill him.”

“Stiles…”

“I’m not joking, I’ll do it.”

“Stiles, please,” Murphy pleads. “Don’t make this a thing. It’s just some dumb watch, it doesn’t even matter.” The lies taste like copper against her tongue.

Stiles paces ahead of her and stops her in her tracks, his body directly in front of hers. “Some dumb watch? Are you shitting me? That’s not _some dumb watch_.” Stiles sighs. “Did he at least offer to fix it?”

“No, why would he?”

“Why would he?!” Stiles repeats. “I dunno, maybe ‘cause it’s one of the only things you have left of your father!”

Murphy dips her chin down, resting her jaw against her shoulder, hiding her face. Her silence puts Stiles on edge as he realizes what he’s said.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that it was really shitty of him not to at least offer to fix it.”

“He doesn’t even know it was my dad’s,” Murphy snaps. “Actually, he doesn’t know anything about my parents.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Stiles persists. He scoffs and shakes his head before staring into Murphy’s wide eyes. “Why do you do this?”

“Do what?” she asks.

“Let him treat you this way.” Stiles runs his hand across his chin before continuing. “He treats you like shit, and you let him. You deserve better than _Mitch_.” Stiles spits the athlete’s name.

“Uh, okay,” Murphy snaps, rage rising in her voice, “I don’t remember asking you for life advice—”

“He’s just using you!”

_Was_, Murphy thinks, _not is_. She yells, “Yeah, I know, I’m using him too!”

Murphy brushes past him.

“You don’t have to act this way,” Stiles insists desperately.

Murphy turns and squares her shoulders with his. Her icy glare bores into his honey-colored eyes. “Act what way exactly?” she snarls.

“It’s like you don’t respect yourself or something.”

“Whoa, okay, fuck you,” Murphy shouts, “I respect myself plenty, thank you very much. Have you ever considered that I’m fucking him because I want to? That I’m having fun? That I’m doing this for my-motherfucking-self?”

Murphy steps toward him. The rubber toes of her beat up Chuck Taylors nearly touch his sneakers. She lowers her tone and continues, “Did you ever consider that I like the way his cock feels in my cunt? That I like the way he trails his lips across my skin as he rubs my clit? That I like how he nips at my ears and shoulders? How he tugs my lower lip between his teeth? How he bruises my tits as I climax? How he knows exactly how to make me cum?”

Murphy sneers and whips away from Stiles, her braid swinging past his face, leaving a whiff of its orange scent.

Stiles gulps. “I just don’t think it’s right for him to treat you the way he does.”

“Well, it doesn’t really fucking matter what you think, does it? So, back off and keep your goddamn opinions to yourself next time.”

“Murph, I just—” Stiles presses.

“God, you really don’t know when to shut your fucking mouth, do you? I said drop it.”

“But, I wasn’t gonna—”

“I already told you, I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Will you just let me—”

“No!” Murphy barks. Her chest heaves. Her nostrils flare. Her fists clench. Her face flushes red. “You are unbelievable. Really. It’s a miracle you don’t have dysentery from the shit spewing out your mouth all the fucking time…”

“Oh, for the love of god,” Stiles mumbles.

“If you thought before you spoke just once in your goddamn life—”

Murphy’s words catch in her mouth as Stiles kisses her. With his hands on either side of her face, he keeps her lips pressed to his. A nervous heat rises in Murphy’s chest as she gives into him, truly gives into him, molding her body against his.

Stiles breaks the kiss and steps back, dropping his arms weak along his sides.

Murphy brushes her lips with the pads of her fingers and whispers, “What’d you do that for?”

“I dunno. I guess I wanted to.”

“You broke the rule.”

“No, I didn’t,” Stiles says. “That rule was for you, not me.”

“Semantics,” Murphy whispers, struggling to catch her breath. The rage resurfaces. “You shouldn’t’ve done that.”

“Well, I did.”

“Well, you shouldn’t’ve.”

“It’s a bit late for that now, isn’t it?” Stiles scoffs.

Murphy crosses her arms across her chest, curving her ribcage inward, shielding herself from Stiles. “I should go.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” he protests, fear reflecting in his warm brown eyes.

“Yes, I should.” Murphy pivots and walks down the street.

“Hey, stop!” Stiles calls after her. “We need to talk about this—”

“No, we don’t,” Murphy shouts back, spinning around to face him, nearly crashing into his chest. “There’s nothing to say.”

“But—”

“No!” She roars, tears welling in her eyes. “You fucked up. You fucked everything up. So, thanks for that. Thanks for ruining the one good thing I had going in my life right now.” She backs away from him and chuckles to herself, “And to think I thought I’d be the one to fuck everything up.”

“Murph!” Stiles screams as Murphy sprints down the street, putting as much distance between them as quickly as she can.

As Murphy runs, she’s unsure if the smudges on her glasses are from Stiles’ nose or the furious tears streaming down her face.


	17. Chapter 17

# MONDAY, MARCH 11, 7:53 A.M., WINSTON HALL, LECTURE HALL

Murphy hears Stiles enter the lecture hall before she sees him. Even through a bustling mob of half-asleep students nursing a two-day hangover, liquor and cheap beer still seeping out of their skin, Murphy can pick out the rustling sounds of Stiles’ distinctive, clumsy shuffle.

She keeps her head down and waits for Stiles to collapse into his seat beside her, but instead he walks past her and collapses at a desk on the top row.

Murphy sighs with relief at first, then the anxiety settles in. That constantly on-alert feeling. That nervous itch writhing under her skin. That uneven, racing heartbeat. She doesn’t even know what she’s anxious about, but she can only assume it has to do with the empty desk beside her.

The anxiety easily transitions into rage. Murphy fumes throughout Dalton’s class, unable to focus on his lecture over the steady boiling of her blood and the tea-kettle screech reverberating in her ears.

As Dalton’s lecture draws to a close and he dismisses the class, the tea kettle in her head stops screaming, and she’s overcome with a heavy sense of doubt, of shame, of loss, of absence.

The feelings bubble inside her. They churn like acid in her stomach and tug on her intestines, desperate to get out. And, she knows she can’t keep them in much longer.

Murphy weaves through the lines of her sleepy classmates, swimming through them like a salmon upstream. She spots the messy-haired boy trudging down the stairs. As he reaches the bottom step, she juts out her hand and grips his freckled arm with surprising strength, unsuitable for her slight frame.

Murphy drags Stiles to the center of the lecture hall and maintains her grasp on him, until the door closes and they are the only two left in the room.

“What the hell are you doing?” Stiles shouts.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Oh, _now_ you wanna talk?” Stiles says dramatically. “Well, I don’t want to, so if you’ll excuse me…” Stiles attempts to step past her, but Murphy blocks his path. He rolls his eyes. “Fine, what do you wanna talk about?”

Murphy’s eyes darken at Stiles’ flippant tone. “You need to stop being a little bitch and get the fuck over yourself, pal,” she barks.

Stiles’ jaw drops, fully offended. “Fuck you! You’re such an asshole. I kissed you and you said I fucked everything up. I have a right to be upset!”

“No, you don’t,” Murphy snaps. “If anyone should be upset here, it’s me. I’m the one who got fucking kissed. But, that doesn’t fucking matter, because we don’t have fucking time to be fucking upset, do we? No, we don’t, ‘cause we still have a fucking project to fucking do together, so fucking get over it.”

“Are you serious?” Stiles huffs.

“Of course I’m fucking serious. We’re adults aren’t we? Let’s pretend it never happened and move on.”

“I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen,” Stiles says.

“Jesus fucking Christ…”

“Murph, I wanted to kiss you. And, I’m glad I did.” Stiles takes a deep breath before continuing, “Because I like you. And, I have no idea why. You are the most annoying, obnoxious asshole I’ve ever met. But, I like you, and I’m not gonna pretend I don’t.”

“Stiles,” Murphy begs, “please don’t do this. We still have to work together for the rest of the semester.”

“I don’t care!” he roars.

The lecture hall door squeals open, revealing a rather shocked freshman student. “Sorry, I’ll…” the student trails off as he exits and closes the door again.

Murphy turns back to Stiles. “Can we please not turn this into a goddamn episode of _Degrassi High_? Let’s do the adult thing and move the fuck past it already.”

“The adult thing to do is to talk about it,” Stiles says.

“No, it’s not,” Murphy protests. “The adult thing to do is ignore it until it goes away.”

“That’s bullshit!”

The room falls silent, so silent Murphy and Stiles can hear the freshman outside murmur to his classmates, “You do not want to go in there… They’re, like, yelling at each other… I don’t know what they were yelling about! I ran outta there real fast… I wouldn’t call it flirting… Oh, shut up, Joe.”

Stiles runs his long fingers through his hair and sighs, “You take everything so seriously all the time, so why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

“Because it’s not a serious issue!” Murphy shouts, drawing out the words.

“Yeah, it is. And, the fact that you can’t see that…” Stiles shakes his head and dodges around Murphy. He swings open the door, running face first into a gaggle of freshman students.

Stiles pushes through the group, leaving Murphy alone in the lecture hall, staring into the curious, excitable eyes of nearly a dozen children.

She feels Stiles’ absence wholly in that moment. She feels the empty space he’s left. She feels the missing piece he took with him. She feels the part of her heart that’s been stolen.

As Murphy shoves each freshman aside, she doesn’t think about how the chasm between them could affect her final grade. All she thinks about is what she could possibly do to get Stiles to talk to her again.

Murphy ducks under a service corridor stairwell. She rubs her hands over her face and drags her bony fingers through her loose braid. She squeezes her eyes shut and hears his voice echoing around her. She dips her head between her shoulders and curses under her breath.

“_Fuck_.”

She does this, because she knows she is falling in love.


	18. Chapter 18

# MONDAY, MARCH 11, 10:32 P.M., EVERMAY APARTMENTS

The lights of Stiles’ Jeep flicker on and off as he locks his car and makes his way toward Apartment C24.

Murphy appears from behind the trees and ambushes Stiles, jumping in front of him, eliciting a girlish screech from the boy.

“What the fuck!” Stiles squeaks, panting. “Are you trying to kill me, woman?!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Murphy apologizes.

“What are you doing here?” he spits. 

“You wouldn’t answer my calls.”

“Yeah, maybe you should’ve taken that as a hint or something.” Stiles shoves past Murphy and continues on toward his apartment. Murphy hurries after him.

“You have to stop ignoring me. We still have to finish this project or we’ll both fail Dalton’s class.”

Stiles chuckles reluctantly, “So, that’s why you’re here? To _study_? To _solve the case_?” Each word slithers from his mouth, hissed and venomous.

“Yes, because the midterm is on Friday and the case is due in, like, a month and we still haven’t finished it—”

Stiles swings around to meet her gaze, his eyes darker and angrier than she’s ever seen them.

“Look, I’m all for ignoring problems until they go away as much as the next guy, but I can’t do this—whatever _this_ is—with you if you’re gonna pretend nothing happened between us. Because something did. And, you ran off. Sprinted, actually. You sprinted off.”

Murphy pleads, “Stiles, can I please—”

“Nuh-uh, all you ever do is yell at me. And, y’know what? It’s my turn, bitch.” Stiles’ jaw drops, shocked at the words that have come out of his mouth. “I didn’t mean to call you a bitch.”

“It’s fine,” Murphy dismisses.

“It is?” The hesitancy in Stiles’ voice reminds Murphy of a boxer holding his fists in front of his face to protect himself from a debilitating blow, the final knock-out.

She takes a slow breath in. “Yeah, it is, ‘cause it’s true. And, I’m not gonna deny the truth, as shitty as it feels to admit it.”

As Stiles relaxes, Murphy hears a sharp bell ring in her ear, the same bell that signals the end of a boxing match.

“Well, I accept your apology,” Stiles whispers.

Murphy narrows her eyes and shakes her head, muttering under her breath, “But, I didn’t apologize.”

Stiles throws his hands over his head and yells, “Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

“Because,” Murphy interrupts, raising her voice, “if I was gonna apologize…” She takes measured steps toward him as she speaks. “I’d tell you I’m sorry for being a dick all the time. I’d tell you I’m sorry for not taking your feelings seriously. I’d tell you I’m sorry for always running off when I should stay. And, I’d tell you I’m sorry for pushing you away like I push away everyone else.”

Murphy, now nothing but a sheer shuffle away from Stiles, waits for Stiles to respond.

“You would?” he gulps, his voice wavering.

Murphy nods, her eyes never leaving Stiles’, and begins again, “I’m sorry for being a dick all the time. I’m sorry for not taking your feelings seriously. I’m sorry for always running off when I should stay. And, I’m sorry for pushing you away like I push away everyone else.”

Stiles takes a sharp inhale in, but fails to exhale as Murphy continues, the words flowing thoughtlessly from her mouth, a stream of consciousness, an candid look inside that strange brain of hers.

“I’m sorry for treating you like everyone else in my life, because you’re not like everyone else in my life. You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever known. And, I could make a million excuses, list hundreds—literally, hundreds—of reasons why I act the way I do. But, none of them matter. All that matters is that I hurt you and I’m sorry.”

Stiles begs his body to tear his focus from her, but he’s mesmerized by her cartoonish, large eyes; those goddamn bug eyes, as intoxicating and as deadly as a Venus fly trap.

“You are?”

“I really am,” Murphy whimpers. “Actually, there’s one more thing I want to say…”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I care about you,” she blurts.

“You, what?”

“I care about you,” Murphy repeats. Her voice cracks and shakes like rubble cascading down a collapsing wall. “Like, a lot. So much it scares me. And, I don’t know what to do about it, ‘cause I know this feeling is gonna fuck everything up and completely destroy this thing we got going and if that happens, it might kill me.” Murphy’s words catch in her throat. “Losing you may completely and utterly destroy me.” 

Stiles’ chest heaves as he listens to the truth pouring from Murphy’s mouth. Where her words were once bitter, all he hears is sweetness; the sticky kind of sweetness that clings to your fingers no matter how many times you wash them. He hardly recognizes the vulnerable person in front of him.

Murphy’s shoulders shake as she says, “Please say something.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he breathes, stunned into silence for the first time in his adult life.

Murphy gasps and dips her face away from him. “Oh, my god. I can’t believe I just said that… Fucking hell. I’m such an—”

Stiles swiftly closes the distance between them and plants his hands on either side of Murphy’s face. He kisses her, for the second time, interrupting her once more.

He pulls away and breathes, “I said I didn’t know what to say, not that I didn’t know what to do.”

Murphy smiles and snakes her hand around Stiles’ neck. She pulls his face to hers again. The two of them stand there in the middle of the parking lot, ignoring the world around them, even as the out-of-season snowflakes begin to fall.

Stiles steps Murphy backward toward C24, keeping his lips against hers as the two stumble up the stairs and crash into his apartment. Stiles swings the door shut behind them as Murphy tears off her jacket and tosses it to the floor with abandon.

She brings her hands back to Stiles’ face and pulls him closer into her, needing nothing but his body against hers. Stiles grips her upper arms and twirls her around, her back hitting the wall. He plants his palms on the wall behind her, caging her in.

“We probably shouldn’t do this,” Murphy pants.

“Yeah, probably not,” Stiles breathes into Murphy’s open mouth. He groans as she trails her fingertips down his chest between the open sides of his flannel.

“I promised I wouldn’t try to fuck you again,” Murphy adds. “That was the rule.”

Murphy can’t tear her eyes away from his smug, magnetic grin. She begs her body to duck under his arm, to fling open the door and dash through it. But, she doesn’t. She stays there, frozen in front of him.

Stiles brings his face a mere breath away from hers, their noses nearly touching. His breath is hot on her quivering upper lip.

“Fuck the rules.”

He crashes his lips against hers. His long fingers grip the nape of her neck, holding her steadfast against him. She runs her hands over his chest, feeling the defined muscles there.

With one hand at the back of Murphy’s neck, Stiles trails his fingers along her body. She vibrates under his electric touch, a shock to her system. He moves both hands to her sides and grabs her hips. He runs his tongue across her lower lip, eliciting an uninhibited gasp from her mouth.

He drags Murphy over to the sofa, propping her up on top of him. She straddles him and tangles her fingers in his hair again. He moans into her mouth, tightening his grasp.

Murphy shudders at the intensity of the sounds he makes. She craves nothing more than to keep those noises coming, the noises she lures out of him.

With her hands still knotted in his hair, she yanks his head back, allowing herself easier access to his neck. She traces her tongue down from his earlobe to the sensitive skin around his collarbone.

Murphy leans back and draws his face to her chest. Stiles peppers light kisses down her clothed sternum. His fingers dance at the edge of her top before lifting it over her head, tossing it carelessly to the side. He palms her covered breasts, gasping for air, and nips at her skin.

Her name tumbles from his mouth in a moan, mumbled like a prayer.

She melts at the sound and collapses into him, molding her body against his, wet in anticipation. She exhales onto his neck, her hot breath raising goose pimples on his skin.

She tugs desperately at his layers, tearing them off as quickly as she can. Stiles gasps, his mouth gaping, as Murphy rakes her nails down his bare chest. She nips at his earlobe and neck.

“Condom,” she whispers.

“Condom?”

“Gimme a sec.” Murphy hops off Stiles and dashes toward her jacket. She pulls a condom out of the pocket.

“You keep a condom in your jacket?” Stiles snickers.

“A girl’s gotta be prepared.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“Take off your clothes and put it on,” she demands as she shimmies out of her jeans and panties.

Stiles stammers inaudibly and does as he’s told, quickly wiggling out of his own pants and boxer shorts. He rips open the condom and rolls it onto his cock, barely rolling it all the way down before Murphy straddles his hips and sinks onto him.

Stiles groans as Murphy digs her nails into his chest and moves up and down. She rubs her clit against the trail of hair between his pelvis and navel. She dips her head back and closes her eyes.

Stiles grunts as Murphy hastens her pace and bucks her hips violently against him. She claws at his neck and draws him in. She bounces up and down his cock, the sound of slapping skin and their eager moans filling the apartment.

“Hey,” he pants. “We’re totally having sex right now.”

“I know, right?” she giggles, the coquettish melody morphing into a satisfied moan as she nears her climax. 

Murphy feels her walls clench as she cums around him. She cries out his name as she cums, pushing him over the edge as she does so. Murphy falls onto Stiles’ chest as he attempts to steady his breath.

“Holy shit,” Stiles gasps. “Did we really just do that?”

“Yeah, we did,” Murphy wheezes. She slides off Stiles’ half-hard cock and collapses onto the sofa beside him. She bites her lower lip and chuckles nervously, “We totally just did that.”

“Yup,” Stiles says, matching Murphy’s anxious tone.

Murphy hops off the sofa and tugs on her clothes, scavenging through the apartment for each item. She dresses and pulls her arms through her jacket sleeves, then turns to face the still-naked Stiles on the sofa.

“I should go,” Murphy says.

“What?”

“It’s late and I have class in the morning.”

“Right, yeah,” Stiles mumbles, buckling his pants around his hips. “I’ll see you Wednesday?”

“Yeah, Wednesday.” Murphy flashes him a tight-lipped grin. “Bye.”

“Bye,” he calls after her as she dashes out the door. He shakes his hand through his hair and sighs, “What the fuck just happened?”


	19. Chapter 19

# WEDNESDAY, MARCH 13, 9:04 A.M., WINSTON HALL, LECTURE HALL

As has been agreed upon by numerous life coaches, countless heartbroken teenagers, and the Hollywood film industry as a whole, sex changes everything.

Murphy spends the majority of Professor Dalton’s class trying not to look at, think about, or talk to Stiles—a near impossible feat, seeing as he’s sitting right beside her.

Murphy wriggles in her seat as she thinks about Stiles’ tongue on her skin, his hands on her body, his cock in her cunt. She presses the back of her hand to her flushed cheeks and takes a deep breath in.

Stiles glances over at her. His eyes fixate on the shallow rise and fall of her chest. The image of her breasts flickers through his mind. The image of her writhing on top of him. The image of her moaning his name with no thought to the volume of her voice. He shifts in his seat and readjust his pants, suddenly tighter than they were moments before.

Professor Dalton’s voice interrupts their respective racing, reckless, soon-to-crash trains of thought.

“Remember, next class is the midterm,” Dalton barks. “The test is fifty multiple-choice questions, with two essay prompts at the end. You’ll have the entire class period to finish it. Don’t forget, this is worth thirty percent of your final grade.”

Dalton’s voice trails off as he struts out of the lecture hall and down the corridor toward his office on the opposite side of campus. As their classmates file out of the room, Murphy and Stiles fidget at their desks.

Stiles readjusts himself again and says simply, “Hey.”

“Hi,” Murphy chirps back.

“We haven’t really talked since… y’know.”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy.”

“Oh, I totally get it. I thought, with everything that happened…”

“I don’t know what there is to say about it,” Murphy adds. “Like, it happened. We had a nice time—I mean, _I_ had a nice time, at least…”

“I had a fantastic time,” Stiles interrupts.

Murphy continues, “Does it _have_ to mean anything for us?”

Stiles’ face falls. “What do you mean? It meant something to me. Did it not mean anything to you?”

“What?” Murphy breathes. “No, of course it meant something to me!”

“But you said—”

“I meant, like, does it have to mean anything for like _us_ and like the future, or whatever?”

“The future?”

“Like, are we gonna do it again or how is this gonna change our dynamic or are we gonna become more than friends now, that type of stuff,” Murphy explains.

“Oh,” Stiles answers, “I… dunno.”

“Me either,” she sighs. “Glad we’re on the same page there.”

“I mean, you’re still sleeping with Mitch, so—”

“No, I’m not.”

Stiles crinkles his eyebrows together and cocks his head to the side. “You’re not?”

“No, I ended things with him last week.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, I did,” Murphy smiles.

“Oh, well, that’s…” Stiles’ grin grows wider by the second. “Good. Cool. So, I dunno, would you be interested in doing that again sometime?”

“Sure.”

His face lights up. “Yeah?”

“It was fun,” Murphy whispers.

“Yeah, it was fun. _Really_ fun,” Stiles agrees. “How ‘bout you come over tonight?” he adds.

“Whoa,” Murphy objects, her giggle morphing into a low laugh, “slow down there, bucko. Let’s not get too carried away here.”

“I meant to study,” Stiles lies.

“Sure, you did, pal,” Murphy snorts. “Plus, I have a feeling we’re gonna have a lot more trouble staying focused on studying now.”

“God, I hope so.” 


	20. Chapter 20

# FRIDAY, MARCH 15, 9:37 P.M., EVERMAY APARTMENTS, APT. C24

“Y’know, that midterm was way easier than I thought it was gonna be,” Murphy quips as she hands a freshly opened beer bottle to Stiles.

“It kinda was,” Stiles beams. “If I fail though, I’m blaming you.”

“You studied with me, you won’t fail,” she boasts. Murphy plops down on the sofa beside Stiles. He laughs as they both take a sip from their bottles.

Murphy turns her body to face him. “I wanna ask you something.”

“Uh-oh.”

“It’s nothing bad, it’s just a question.”

“Still doesn’t sound promising.”

Murphy fusses with the beer bottle label. “What’re you gonna do after graduation?”

Stiles relaxes. “Law enforcement. FBI. Have an interview with them next week and everything.”

“You’d be good at that.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely. You talk so much you’ll be able to annoy confessions out of people,” Murphy teases.

Stiles chuckles and asks, “What about you?”

Murphy raises her eyes to meet Stiles’ honey-colored ones. “I have no motherfucking clue.”

Stiles gasps in mock surprise, “Little Miss Planner over here doesn’t have a plan? Someone make a note of this day, ‘cause this has gotta go in a calendar or something. National holiday proportions, I’m telling you.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck off,” she jokes. “I never thought about it was all.”

“Never?”

“I mean, after my parents, I took on this whole thing of, like, anything can happen to anyone at any time, so does planning for the future even fucking matter? Like, we could literally hop in your Jeep right now, run into a tree, and die on impact. No next steps, no more milestones, just… gone.”

“Well, that’s depressing.”

“I don’t mean it to be depressing,” Murphy explains. “All I’m saying is that I never used to think about the future past these four years at school, and now I have to.”

Murphy’s cheeks flush and she recoils from Stiles, resuming her former position further away from him. “Eh, whatever, with two million dollars I can probably do whatever the fuck I want.”

Stiles chokes on his beer and spits half of it onto his shirt. “Excuse me, what? Did you just say two million dollars? How the hell did you get that kind of cash?”

“Fatal car crashes can be pretty lucrative,” Murphy says sarcastically. “I dunno, I’ll probably just become some bullshit blogger or famous cunt on Instagram or something.”

“Oh, please,” Stiles scoffs. “You wouldn’t make it five minutes as a bullshit blogger or an Instagram… cunt,” he gulps, barely croaking the vile swear word that flows so effortlessly off Murphy’s tongue. 

Stiles clears his throat and continues, “You’d make a good… Shit, I dunno. You’re a complex person.”

“Wow, thanks,” Murphy huffs.

“All I said was you’re complex!”

“Everybody knows that just means ‘cunt-y.’”

Stiles edges his long fingers closer to Murphy’s, nearly touching her, but still keeping enough distance so she feels comfortable. “You can do whatever you want to.”

“Because I’m amazing and the world’s my oyster?” Murphy jeers.

“No,” Stiles shakes his head and says somberly, jokingly, “because you have two million goddamn dollars, that’s why.

Murphy bursts into laughter and falls face first into Stiles’ lap. She curls her knees into her chest and lets herself get lost in the sound of her own giggles; the sound of Stiles’ amused and surprised snickers; the sound of unapologetically feeling something, feeling anything, feeling everything.

Stiles looks down at Murphy’s bright face. Her glasses are skewed to the side, but she doesn’t seem care. He brushes a strand of hair out of her face and smiles before pushing her back up to a seated position and hopping off the sofa.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Stiles demands, holding his hand out to Murphy.

She wraps her palm around his and stands. “Where are we going?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

Stiles pulls her by the hand into his chest and snakes his arms around her back. “Do you always need a destination? Can’t you ever just enjoy the journey?”

Murphy locks her hands around Stiles’ neck. “The destination is what makes the journey worthwhile.”

“Wanna bet?”

Stiles swipes his keys off the table and, with Murphy’s hand still clasped in his, he runs. Murphy flies down the stairs and out to the parking lot after him. He tugs her along to the Jeep, flings open the passenger’s side door, and lifts Murphy into the seat. He dashes to the driver’s side, shifts the car into reverse, and whips out of the apartment complex. The Jeep’s worn out engine revs as Stiles accelerates down the empty street.

Stiles and Murphy crank down their windows at the same time, granting the evening chill entry into their little sanctuary from the world.

The wind whips through Murphy’s sloppy braid, freeing the loose strands from their lazy plait. She reaches her hand out the window to feel the wind on her skin and wiggles her fingers, letting the cool air breeze over her.

Murphy leans her head to the sky and howls into the nothingness surrounding the Jeep, greeting the forested void.

She gazes at the boy beside her and takes in his casual beauty—his crinkled honey eyes, the upturned corners of his snarky mouth, the dots sprinkled across his body that form constellations in his skin. Murphy runs her hand over the goose pimples on his arm and traces the speckled patterns.

Stiles twists the stereo dial, turning the volume up as loud as it can go. He glances up at the rearview mirror and watches the reflective surface vibrate in time with the beat.

Even over the music, he can hear Murphy’s infectious, uninhibited cackle—that noise that floats from her sweet lips; that noise that rumbles deep within her chest; that noise, that stupid noise, that he could listen to for ages and not get tired of.

And, as he listens to her making such human sounds to his right, he realizes he’s never felt this free before.

Murphy thinks the same, feeling so unshackled to everything that for once in her life she’s not waiting for the other shoe to drop. Instead, she screeches along with the music pulsing through the speakers, singing so loudly she’s surely ripping her vocal cords to shreds. And, somehow, she doesn’t care in the slightest.

Stiles hears the foreboding yet familiar _put-put-put_ of his Jeep’s engine as the headlights flicker off, the music cuts out, and the car slows to a stop.

“Dammit,” he curses. “Will you pass me the toolbox?”

“Why?” Murphy hums mischievously. Stiles opens his mouth to speak, but Murphy continues before he gets the chance. “Look at us. We’re all alone in the middle of nowhere, no one else around for miles…”

She places her delicate hands on either side of his face and brings his lips to hers. “Maybe this is that destination we were looking for.”

Stiles moans and unfastens his seatbelt buckle. He lunges at Murphy and wraps his hand around the back of her head, keeping her mouth on his.

Murphy slides her hands down Stiles’ chest and tugs his flannel down his shoulders. She grabs the tail of her shirt and pulls it over her head, dropping it carelessly to the floor of the Jeep. Then, she wriggles out of her jeans and tosses them beside her top.

Murphy untangles herself from Stiles and climbs over the seats, beaconing him into the back. Stiles tears off his t-shirt and follows her, crashing his lips against hers once he meets her there.

He trails his hands across Murphy’s smooth skin as she straddles him. As Murphy fusses with the button of his jeans, Stiles pops open the clasp of her bra. He runs his tongue between her breasts, drawing a wet line up her sternum. He brings his mouth to her neck and collarbone, placing passionate kisses on the bare skin.

Murphy weaves her fingers through his hair and moans at the feel of his tongue on her body. She closes her eyes and imagines what else his tongue could to do her—how his tongue would feel in her cunt; something she’s never considered, something she’s never even considered fantasizing about.

As her mind plays through visions of Stiles’ dexterous mouth, he slides her panties to the side and eases a finger into her cunt. He presses his thumb against her swollen clit and pushes his finger in and out of her.

Murphy moans louder this time, thankful for their isolated island in the world. Stiles hastens his movements and Murphy adds to the motion by grinding against his hand, desperate for more; more of this overwhelming sensation, more of him, more of everything.

Murphy’s hands dart down to Stiles’ pants and she manages to unzip them. With his assistance, she eases the trousers and boxer shorts past his knees, exposing his throbbing cock.

Stiles reaches down to the pants around his ankles and pulls a condom out of his pocket.

“I see someone’s prepared,” Murphy laughs.

“You’ve taught me well.”

Stiles rips open the package and rolls the condom down his cock. Murphy kisses him feverishly as he does so and rakes her fingernails across his entire body. Stiles grips Murphy by the ass and pulls her onto his cock. She immediately begins to rock against him.

Murphy rolls her body in waves, keeping her clit in close contact with his pelvis, rubbing it against the trail of hair leading to his stiffened appendage. She arches and dips her head back. Stiles takes advantage of her exposed skin and presses his lips against her breasts, nibbling every so often, eliciting satisfied groans from the girl on top of him.

Stiles clasps his hands around Murphy’s hips and shoves her back and forth on his cock, adding to her already vigorous rhythm. Murphy falls back onto Stiles’ chest and locks her slender fingers into his hair, yanking the strands with each pleasurable wave that washes over her sweating body.

Her moans grow louder. And, louder. And, louder still. Stiles has never heard anyone make as much noise as Murphy is making. He feels himself approaching the edge as her wild tresses tickle his ear.

Murphy brings her lips back to Stiles’ and kisses him with unmatched fervor as she nears her release. She bites down on his bottom lip, drawing blood, and cums around his cock, her cries of ecstasy so loud Stiles is afraid the nearest house three miles away will hear her.

He holds her twitching body against his as she bucks her hips, riding out the high.

“You okay?” he asks.

Murphy, unable to answer, merely pants into his ear, exhibiting the overwhelming pleasure she’s experienced. Eventually, she is able to nod her head against his neck.

A cheeky grin stretches across Stiles’ face as he feels her nod. He grabs her by the hips again and thrusts his cock in and out of her rapidly, chasing his release, desperate to feel what she feels, to meet her in such a satisfied state.

He empties himself into the condom as Murphy bites down on his earlobe. Stiles heaves after finally earning his moment of ecstasy.

“Can I tell you something?” Murphy wheezes.

Stiles rests his head between Murphy’s breasts and peppers tender kisses across her ribs. “What?”

“This is the first time I’ve had sex naked.”

Stiles lifts his head, a quizzical expression painted to his face. “How is that possible?”

“Well, never completely naked, at least. I’m always wearing something, even if it’s just a pair of socks.”

“Seriously?”

“I always had a thing about it, but now… With you, it doesn’t frighten me as much, if that makes any sense. You make me feel safe, I guess.”

“I make you feel safe?” Stiles’ confused look turns to one of adoration.

“Yeah, you do.”

“That’s funny.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause I thought you were the one keeping me safe.”

Murphy kisses Stiles’ cheek and whispers into his ear, “I suppose we can keep each other safe, then.”


	21. Chapter 21

# SATURDAY, MARCH 16, 12:11 A.M., HUDSON FOREST

Murphy slouches in the passenger’s seat and snuggles her chin into her chest as Stiles drives back toward the apartment complex. She clings to the seatbelt, not out of fear like she usually does, but out of a deep comfort and need of something to rest her head upon. Her eyelids flutter shut as she dozes off.

Stiles glances at Murphy. He watches her unnaturally wide eyes close and a calm expression stretch across her relaxed face, a look he’s never seen on her before. He watches her breathe and listens to the subtle whistle blowing from her nose as she exhales in her complete surrender to exhaustion.

He smiles to himself, unsure which part of the situation he enjoys most: that she looks so uncharacteristically serene or that he’s never seen her so quiet before.

The silence breaks as the headlights go out and the Jeep stalls to a stop.

Murphy stirs. “What’s going on?”

“Engine again,” Stiles grumbles as he hops out of the car.

Without being asked, as though on Pavlovian instinct, Murphy brings Stiles’ sorry excuse for a toolbox out to him. But, as Murphy rounds the hood, she senses something is different.

“Stiles…”

“Pass me the tape, will you?” he demands, ignoring her.

“Stiles,” she repeats, louder this time.

“Yeah, okay, I see the problem—”

“Stiles!”

He finally responds. “What?”

Murphy’s eyes widen.

“Run.”

Stiles rushes after her to the other side of the street and through the first line of trees. He barely has time to crouch down and over Murphy’s slight frame as the engine explodes and the Jeep bursts into flames.

The two stand and view the wreckage, unable to tear their eyes away.

“My Jeep,” Stiles wheezes.

Murphy turns to face him, livid. “Are you shitting me, Stiles? That’s all you care about? Your goddamn car? We could’ve died!”

Stiles’ chest heaves as he looks at Murphy. He’s never seen such betrayal in her eyes, not even at the beginning, not even when he first kissed her. He replies sheepishly, “But, we didn’t.”

“That’s not the fucking point!” Murphy screams. “I told you, didn’t I, that this car was gonna end up killing you.” Murphy’s words catch in her throat as tears well in her eyes. “Cars kill people, Stiles.”

Images of Murphy’s dismantled crime board flicker through Stiles’ mind as he remembers. “Murph…”

“I can’t even look at you right now,” she whimpers as one sole tear races down her cheek. She heads down the road without a look back, leaving Stiles there alone with his smoldering car. She keeps her pace, determined to not let him see or hear her as she weeps.

Stiles’ eyes stay fixed on Murphy as she walks away—possibly, he considers, for the last time. He averts his gaze back to his beloved Jeep, but all he can see is Murphy: fiery, destructive, explosive.


	22. Chapter 22

# MONDAY, MARCH 18, 9:14 A.M., UNIVERSITY COURTYARD

She hadn’t looked at him all class. Not even glanced. Not even glared.

Stiles dashes out of Winston Hall and swims through the sea of students. “Murph, wait!” he calls.

She ignores him.

“Murph!” he tries again.

She ignores him still.

Stiles, wheezing, falls in stride with Murphy. Through ragged breaths, he begs, “Murph, please. I’m so sorry. Please, let me apologize.”

Murphy spins around. Her hefty backpack hits Stiles in the chest and knocks whatever remaining breath he had out of him.

She plants her feet on the green in the center of the courtyard. “Then, apologize,” she hisses.

“I—I, uh,” Stiles stutters, “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Great,” Murphy snaps, “thanks for wasting my fucking time.”

“Murph, please, just talk to me.”

Murphy takes a step toward Stiles. A menacing step. The kind of step you never want to be on the end of. The step of someone who has documentation of every horrible thing the person on the other end has done. The step of someone who’s thrown caution to the wind and is ready to spill all their deepest darkest secrets. The step of someone who no longer cares what anyone thinks of them.

The step of someone who is about to start screaming in public.

And Murphy is.

“Just talk to you? Just talk to you?!” Her voice echoes through the courtyard. “What the fuck do you want me to say? Or, do you really want to just talk _at_ me? To make some bullshit, half-hearted apology for almost killing us both the other night?”

The heads of several students turn to watch the dramatic scene unfold. After all, this is the golden age of reality television. And, this program isn’t even scripted.

“You fucked up. Real bad. What the fuck could you possibly say to make it okay again? Seriously, I genuinely want to know what you were gonna say. If you wanna talk so bad, then fucking talk.”

The viewers rest their eyes on Stiles and wait for his response.

“I—I…” he stutters again, utterly unable to put together a sentence or phrase that can effectively summarize what he feels and what he wants to say.

“That’s what I thought,” Murphy scoffs. “And, y’know what? When I think about it, this is kinda perfect timing. We both knew this… whatever the fuck it is has an expiration date—”

“Whoa, hold up,” Stiles interjects, finally able to put words together.

Murphy steamrolls over him without missing a beat. “Whether it was graduation or something else, we were never gonna be together, not forever. Just as well you fuck everything up now so we have a valid reason to end things.”

Their spat is gaining attention. By far the best viewership ratings on the university campus in at least a quarter of a century. Not even tenured professor and resident push-over Dr. Harold Milton can remember a situation as gripping as this.

Except for maybe in 1996 when that young man had proposed to that young woman. But, they’ve since divorced, so that hardly counts.

“I don’t understand,” Stiles stammers. “This doesn’t have to end after graduation if we don’t want it to—”

“Stiles,” Murphy sighs. The viewers lean in, desperate to hear her response. “We’re both moving on. You’re heading to D.C., probably. And, I’m headed to… fuck knows where. We’re never gonna see each other ever again after May 15, so let’s leave it at that and be done with it.

Stiles’ breathy voice is barely audible. “But, what about all that stuff you said the other night? About losing me?”

Murphy straightens her spine, clenches her jaw, and tenses every muscle in her body. She whispers, “I guess I’ll be fine without you after all.”

Stiles stands still, even as Murphy stomps through their audience. He scans the crowd of viewers, almost expecting them to start clapping. After all, the drama club _is_ on an environmental theatre kick right now. 

Stiles looks around, meeting each bystander’s curious stare. He hurries through the crowd and ducks behind an academic building. He presses one hand flat against the mossy, brick wall and the other to his chest.

With eyes squeezed shut, he focuses on his hyperventilating breath and racing heartbeat. His chest tightens as his body succumbs to the pain ripping through him, the familiar heart attack feeling. He tries to think of anything else—literally anything else—but the only image his mind can conjure is the pained stoicism painted across her face.

He sinks to the wet grass and waits for the panic attack to pass. He knows there’s nothing he can do to stop it now.


	23. Chapter 23

# FRIDAY, MARCH 29, 9:56 P.M., SETON HALL

It’s been nearly two weeks since their extremely public argument and Murphy has still not spoken a word to Stiles.

Since the fight, Murphy has become rather popular across campus, though. She cannot remember having so many eyes on her at any point in time. But, that’s what one gets when they have an extremely public argument in the day and age of social media sharing.

Murphy jumps in her swivel chair, nearly spilling her rum-filled tumbler all over her notes, at the startling rap on her door. Swearing all the while, she places the glass gingerly on her bedside table and trudges to the door. As she nears it, she replays the sound of the knocking knuckles in her head. She thinks she recognizes them.

She is right.

With a large rectangular package covering his face and most of his flannel-covered torso, his dark hair peeks out above the object.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she groans.

“I brought you something,” Stiles winces, the bulky object slipping in his grasp.

“I can see that,” she scoffs.

“Can you please let me in so I can put this down? It’s deceptively hard to carry.”

Murphy steps aside and ushers Stiles into the room. He props up the package on Murphy’s desk chair and pitches his hands onto his hips.

“Well,” he encourages, gesturing to the gift.

Still refusing to make eye contact with him, Murphy approaches the gift apprehensively, with narrowed eyes and a suspicious composure. She rips the brown covering.

She sees the green string through the single tear.

“What the fuck is this?”

“I figured you’ve seen enough of them by now to know.”

“No, Stiles,” she snarls, eyes fixed to the green string. “_What_ the fuck is it?”

Stiles lifts the board out of its packaging and leans it atop Murphy’s desk where they both can see it.

“It’s your parents,” he explains.

Murphy meets Stiles’ gaze. “You said I didn’t have a case.”

“And, you don’t,” he says, “which is why I put this together. To explain what that all means. Like, this, here”—Stiles points to a service report—“says your parents’ car and millions of other models like it were recalled for faulty engines back in December 2014.”

Stiles trails his forefinger across the board along one of the green lines, landing on another report. “This one says that nearly four hundred thousand of the recalled cars caught fire due to an automobile malfunction, just like your parents’.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” Murphy hisses.

“That was my intention, yes.”

“Well, it doesn’t.” Murphy reaches out her hands to push Stiles through the door, even though it’s closed.

“Wait,” he objects. Murphy draws her hands back. “Look, I know you don’t need facts to make up your mind about stuff. I’m pretty sure I know that better than anyone. But, I also know that if I present the facts in a way that makes sense to you, you’ll get it.” Stiles takes a moment before finishing, “So, this is them. These are the facts.”

“You done now?”

Stiles purses his lips and shakes his head, “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Great. Then, get the fuck out.”

Stiles turns on his heel and heads toward the door.

“Also,” Murphy adds, “I think I’ll finish the project by myself. I’ll email it to you when I’m done.”

“Murph, it’s my grade, too. I want to help.”

“I don’t need your help,” Murphy snaps.

Stiles clicks his tongue. “So, that’s it then.”

“That’s it.”

Stiles bobs his head and shuffles to the door, but instead of crossing the threshold, he spins to face Murphy again.

And, suddenly, the words in his heads compose themselves into sentences, into everything he’s been so desperate to say.

“I’m sorry for thinking I could apologize to you the same way I would to anyone else, ‘cause you’re not like anyone else. You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever known. And, I could make a million excuses, but none of them would matter. All that matters is that I hurt you and I’m sorry.”

Murphy gulps as she recognizes the words flowing from his mouth.

“I care about you,” Stiles continues, his voice cracking and shaking like tremors ripping through a fault line. “A lot. So much it scares me. And, I don’t know what to do about it, ‘cause I know I fucked everything up and completely destroyed the amazing thing we had going. It happened, and it killed me.”

He rushes to Murphy and places his hands on either side of her neck. “Losing you completely and utterly destroyed me.”

Murphy wraps her hands around Stiles’ wrists, intending to tear him away from her. But, as she places her palms around his speckled skin, she can’t bring herself to push him away.

It’s something she’s never felt before.

She whispers, “You plagiarized me.”

“You’re much better at putting the right words together than I am.”

“I’m much better at a lot of things than you are.”

“That’s true,” Stiles agrees, a breathy chuckle escaping his mouth. He runs his tongue over his lips. “So, what does this mean for us?”

“Us?” Murphy breathes.

“Yes. Us.”

“I dunno.”

Stiles snakes one of his hands around the back of Murphy’s head and draws her nearer to him. “What do you want it to mean?”

“I dunno,” she repeats.

“Yes, you do.”

Stiles brings his other hand to cup Murphy’s cheek, his thumb resting against her jaw.

“You always know,” he adds.

Murphy sighs, “No, I don’t. I don’t know anything.”

“Yes, you do.”

Murphy slides her palm up Stiles’ arm and shoulder. She clasps her hand around his neck and knots her fingers in his hair. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and eases onto her toes.

She draws herself closer to him, chest to chest. He coils his arms around her back and brings his face to hers. His nose nudges her glasses, smudging them, though she can’t see through her shut eyelids.

Stiles brushes his lips against Murphy’s. As she exhales through her nose, the warm air tickles his upper lip.

Murphy rakes her fingers up his scalp, grasps his messy locks, and crashes her lips against his.

Stiles moans into Murphy’s mouth as he anchors his hands around her thighs. He wraps her legs around him and carries her to her desk. He places her down and brings his hand back to her face. His thumb is against her jaw again, much rougher this time. 

Murphy tugs Stiles’ hair and yanks his head back. He groans as she bites into his neck, pulling the skin through her teeth. She pushes up the hem of his t-shirt. He grabs the back of the collar and tears it over his head. Murphy scrapes her nails down his chest and claws at his zipper.

Stiles trails wet kisses across Murphy’s collarbone as he fusses with the buttons on her sleepshirt. After undoing two buttons, he sees the bare skin of her sternum. Overcome with intense need, he tears the fabric open. Buttons clatter to the floor and he brings his mouth to her breasts, nipping at the sensitive skin.

He traces his fingers down her sides and hooks his fingers around the waistband of her matching sleep shorts. He lifts her with one hand, pulling the cotton garment out from under her with the other. He unlocks her ankles from around his waist. He crouches down and eases onto his knees as he drags the fabric down Murphy’s legs.

He tosses the shorts to the side and runs his palms up and over Murphy’s legs, his eyes in line with her cunt.

“Take off your goddamn pants,” she huffs.

He locks his eyes with hers. A devilish smirk crosses his face as he says, “Not yet.”

Stiles clasps his hands around Murphy’s thighs and pulls until her legs are dangling off the desk. He rests the crooks of her knees on his shoulders and peppers kisses across her inner thighs.

“Stiles…” Murphy moans.

Stiles’ mischievous grin grows as he lays his tongue flat against her cunt. Murphy gasps at the new sensation and clutches the edge of the desk. He licks his tongue slowly between the folds, savoring the uninhibited noises tumbling from her mouth.

He flicks his tongue up her cunt at double the pace. The noises rumble deep within Murphy’s throat, louder and louder the faster and flatter he licks.

Murphy releases her grasp on the edge of the desk and darts her hand out to Stiles’ head. She weaves her fingers through his hair and pulls him in. He tightens his grip on her legs and sucks on her clit.

Murphy’s voice squeaks as Stiles moans, adding an unexpected vibration to the steady lap of his tongue. The product of her arousal dribbles down Stiles’ chin as he swirls his tongue around her clit.

Stiles nods his head up and down with his tongue flat against Murphy’s cunt. She intensifies her grip in his hair and clamps down on his arm with the other hand. Stiles eases a finger into her as he focuses on her clit. An ungodly sound floats from Murphy’s mouth as he adds a second finger.

“Fuck, Stiles,” she cries out as she cums. He pumps his fingers in and out and keeps his tongue pressed against her clit as she rides out her high. Murphy’s entire body quakes as the orgasm washes over her.

Stiles stands between Murphy’s shaking legs and wipes his eager mouth with the back of his hand, swiping a satisfied smirk across it in his wake.

Murphy pulls his lips to hers and slips her tongue into his mouth, tasting herself on his lips. She tugs his bottom lip between her teeth as she draws her head back from him.

“So,” he chuckles, “am I forgiven now?”

“You’ve still got a ways to go, but that was a pretty fucking good start,” Murphy wheezes.

“Never thought you’d be this easy to please.”

“I can assure you,” she sneers, “I’m not.”


	24. Chapter 24

# TUESDAY, APRIL 2, 5:14 P.M., EVERMAY APARTMENTS, APT. 24C

Murphy gnaws on the eraser end of her No. 2 pencil as she watches Stiles study. Even she’s been amazed at how quickly she’s been able to forgive him. Maybe it’s something in his eyes. Maybe it’s because he actually means it, is genuinely sorry. Maybe it’s just him.

Murphy shifts in the Ikea dining chair as her hungry eyes float down the sharp angles of his cheek and jaw. She watches his Adam’s apple bob as he coughs and brings his long fingers—_oh, those fingers_—up to his chin to scratch the light stubble sprinkled across his speckled skin.

She follows his fingers with her eyes, watching them curl around the back of his neck, wishing those were her hands on him instead of his own. She imagines how his hands feel on her body, how they feel on her neck, how they might feel clasped around her windpipe.

As Stiles lowers his hand, Murphy trails her gaze down the noticeable curve of his bicep and the slope of his forearm. She gulps as she catches a glimpse of the pitcher’s vein bulging from the underside of his arm. She rests her gaze again on his fiddling fingers, moving ceaselessly, never tiring, in a constant state of motion.

She yanks the pencil out from between her lips and clears her throat.

Stiles scans his scrawled notes and taps his pencil against the kitchen table absentmindedly, completely unaware of the thoughts running through the mind of the girl sitting beside him. “So, I think we should start our presentation with—”

Unable to control herself any longer, Murphy lunges at him. She plants her palms on either side of his face and draws his lips to hers. Stiles loops his arms around Murphy’s back as she climbs into his lap and coils her arms around his neck. She nips at his lower lip.

“Aren’t we supposed to be studying?” Stiles chuckles breathily as Murphy runs her tongue up the side of his neck.

“Couldn’t help myself,” she whispers into his ear and bites his earlobe.

Stiles moans and tightens his hold around Murphy as he stands, easing her onto the edge of the kitchen table. He steadies his hands on either side of her hips and kisses her, as her hands cradle his jaw.

“Why don’t we make a study game out of it?” Stiles suggests. 

“I don’t really like games.”

“But you do like studying.”

“That’s true,” Murphy gasps as Stiles brings his lips to her neck. “So, what’re the rules for this game of yours?”

“How ‘bout every time we finish outlining a section of the presentation, we each take of an item of clothing?”

“Interesting,” Murphy sings, “but I think you can do better than that.”

“Okay, how ‘bout we take a fifteen minute study break after we nail down our opening?”

“Don’t sell yourself short. I think we’ll need more than fifteen minutes…”

“I’m running out of ideas here,” Stiles huffs as Murphy slides her hand past the hem of Stiles’ t-shirt and flicks her fingertips against the waistband of his pants.

“Maybe a game isn’t our best option, then.”

“Yeah, maybe not.” Stiles’ voice falters as Murphy shoves her hand into his pants and palms his throbbing cock. He groans, “Oh, fuck it.”

Murphy tosses her glasses carelessly onto the table. She crosses her arms, grabs the hem of her striped shirt, and twists it over her head.

Stiles tears off his t-shirt and dives his head to Murphy’s bare chest. He trails his lips over her burning skin. With his lips against her, he pops open the button of her jeans and slips his fingers down her underwear. Murphy gasps as the pads of Stiles’ fingers brush over her clit.

A ding chimes from Stiles’ laptop.

“What was that?” Murphy asks.

Stiles’ eyes flash open and he pulls away from her, drawing his hand out of her pants. He wipes his fingers absentmindedly on his jeans as he scrolls through his computer.

He looks up from his laptop, mouth gaping, and collapses into his chair. “Oh, my god,” he breathes.

“What?” Murphy asks as she scoots across the table’s edge toward him.

“I got it,” Stiles beams. “I got the job. I’m officially employed at the FBI.”

Stiles leaps from his chair and kisses Murphy passionately, wrapping his arms around her back, holding her close.

“I’m so proud of you,” Murphy says.

Stiles pulls back and stares at her. His smile spreads wider across his bright face.

“Come with me,” he says. “Come with me to D.C.”

Murphy furrows her brow. “Are you insane?” she shrieks.

“No, I’m serious.”

Murphy stares into his warm brown eyes—more sincere than she’s ever seen them, not even a glimmer of sarcasm or irony swimming in them. “I can’t go with you to D.C.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s crazy!”

Stiles tightens his arms around Murphy’s back. “What’s so crazy about it?”

“Well, first off,” she starts, “we’ve known each other for, like, three goddamn months. _Maybe_. And, at least seventy-five percent of that we spent fighting and absolutely hating each other.”

“I never hated you,” Stiles interjects.

Murphy bulldozes over him without missing a beat. “Second, I’ve said it before and I’ll probably have to say it again, but we have an expiration date, May 15. Then, it’s all over.”

“But it doesn’t have to be if you—”

“Lastly, I’m not gonna follow some guy I met at college to a completely different city halfway across the country.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“That’s _exactly_ what you are asking.”

“Well, it’s not what I meant,” Stiles insists. He loosens his grip on Murphy and trails his hand up and down her arm. “What I meant was you could come to D.C., figure out what you wanna do with your life… and, also, I’ll be there. You do your thing, I’ll do mine. We’ll do our own things together.”

Murphy brushes his hand off her arm. “This is fucking batshit, you do realize that, don’t you?”

“What’s so batshit about it?” Stiles asks.

“The fact that we’re even having this conversation is batshit alone!” Murphy shouts. She takes a deep, calming breath and continues, “Stiles, I am so proud of you. You are going to do amazing things and they are so lucky to have you. But, you have to believe me now, I will not be there with you. I’m sorry.”

Stiles pushes off the table and takes two paces backward. Murphy slides off, pulls her shirt back on, and rests her glasses back on her nose. She starts to gather her things.

“Wait, where are you going?” Stiles asks.

“Home.”

“Why?”

Murphy stops stuffing her books into her bag and looks up at Stiles. Her eyebrows crinkle together as she gazes into his calm face. “I—I don’t know… I guess ‘cause usually after we fight I go home.”

“Was that a fight?”

“Yes,” Murphy says hesitantly. “I mean, no… Well, maybe, kinda.”

Stiles lays his hand over top of Murphy’s and says, “Didn’t feel like a fight to me. And, we still have studying to do.”

Murphy bites over her bottom lip and stares at Stiles’ hand on top of hers. She tries to move her hand, but her body won’t listen. Murphy looks back up at him. “Okay, let’s study then.”

Stiles grins. He cocks his head to the side and pitches his hands on his hips. “Plus, I figure you might wanna have sex with the newest member of the FBI or something like that…”

Murphy flings her arms around his neck and kisses him. “Alright, then, FBI man,” she hums, “show me whatcha got.”


	25. Chapter 25

# SUNDAY, APRIL 7, 11:59 P.M., EVERMAY APARTMENTS, APT. 24 C

A knock at the door startles Stiles, jostling the game controller in his hand. He swears and stands as the screen blinks GAME OVER.

Another knock.

“Dude, it’s like midnight,” Stiles groans loudly as he approaches the door.

Another knock, an eager knock.

“Jesus Christ, I swear—”

Stiles flings open the door, his exasperated expression rapidly melting as he sees Murphy standing in front of him.

“What’re you doing here?” he grins.

“I wanted to say happy birthday. And, give you your present.”

“It’s not my birthday.”

Murphy pulls her phone out of her pocket and clicks the lock screen, flashing it at him: 12:00, Monday, April 8.

“Now, it is,” she snickers.

“How’d you find out?”

“I have my ways.” Murphy sidles closer to Stiles and bats her eyelashes. “So, aren’t you gonna let me in?”

Stiles steps out of the way and waves Murphy in. She struts past him, slipping out of her Chuck Taylors, and plants herself in the center of the room, her jacket still wrapped around her body.

“So, what’s this about a present?” Stiles asks. He clicks the door shut and turns to face her, his jaw instantly dropping.

Murphy unbuttons her jacket and flings it across the room, landing it on the back of one of his Ikea dining chairs. She traces her fingers lightly over her half-naked body, skimming her fingertips across the thin lace covering her breasts.

Murphy points to the sofa. Stiles obeys. He sinks into the worn cushions and reaches out to her. She swats his hand away and smirks as she lowers to her knees and positions herself between Stiles’ jittery legs.

“Wha—What are you doing?” he stammers.

“Giving you your birthday present,” she purrs and hooks her fingers around the waistband of his sweatpants. She takes her time dragging them down his legs. Stiles moans as her knuckles brush lightly against his pale skin. She carefully works the elastic band over his knees and releases. The gray cotton pools around his ankles.

Murphy inches her knees closer to him and wraps her fist around Stiles’ half-hard cock. She pumps her hand along his shaft at an excruciatingly glacial pace. A prideful arrogance swells in her chest as she observes the blissful surrender that crosses his face. She twists her wrist as she pumps, adding a new sensation, eliciting an uninhibited gasp and moan from Stiles’ gaping mouth.

Still pumping, she draws the tip of her tongue along the inside of his thigh. Stiles pants as he rubs the heels of his palms down his thighs. His fingertips curl as he resists the urge to grab a fistful of her hair and shove his cock into her throat.

Murphy gazes up at Stiles, her eyes shining with an intoxicating combination of innocence and pure seduction. Stiles clamps his fingers down on his legs and huffs, nearly hyperventilating, as Murphy tilts her head and swipes her tongue along the underside of his painfully erect cock. She flicks her tongue across the tip and envelops him whole.

She moves her head in time with her hand, her lips meeting the side of her forefinger as she bobs her head down. An animalistic slurp slips out of her lips as she hastens her pace and brings him deeper into her mouth. She grips one of Stiles’ hands, pries it from his thigh, and shoves it into her hair.

He grabs a fistful of her messy locks and drags her mouth further down his cock, yanking her head back and forth along his length faster and faster. He dips his head back and struggles to steady his breath as her chin bumps against his balls. He brings his other hand into her hair and loosens his grip, simply resting his palms against her temples, as she keeps the frantic pace herself.

Primal grunts pour out of Stiles’ open lips as he nears his release. His fingertips dig against Murphy’s scalp as he cums in her mouth, shooting down her throat.

She swirls her tongue around his softening cock and draws her lips off him with a light pop. She locks her eyes with his half-closed ones and swallows dramatically, performing for him.

Stiles, utterly spent, sighs, “Holy motherfucking shit.”

Murphy wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and licks her lips. She sees Stiles’ cock twitch at the movement of her tongue and smiles.

“I think that’s the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten,” Stiles wheezes. “And, I got the Jeep when I turned sixteen, so that’s really saying something.”

Murphy plants her palms on Stiles’ knees and kisses him. She licks his bottom lip and pulls lightly between her teeth before saying, “Happy birthday, asshole.”


	26. Chapter 26

# WEDNESDAY, APRIL 10, 7:34 A.M., WINSTON HALL

Weary-eyed and sweatshirt-clad, Murphy shuffles up the steps of Winston Hall and toward the lecture hall. As she pushes through the door, a playful arm snakes around her waist and tugs her under the stairwell.

“Fucking hell,” she laughs, “it’s too early for this shit, Stiles.”

Stiles beams, “I have something for you.”

“Yeah? What?” Murphy scoffs.

Stiles draws a bow-covered box from behind his back and holds it out to Murphy. “Happy birthday.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Murphy coos.

“You gave me the greatest birthday gift ever, so this is the least I can do.”

Murphy smiles and takes the small box from his hands. She pauses halfway through untying the bow to ask, “This isn’t like jewelry or anything, is it? ‘Cause I dunno if I’m ready for that this early in the—”

“Just open it.”

Murphy tosses the ribbon to the floor and lifts the box lid. She gasps as she traces her fingertips over the familiar leather band sitting inside the box.

She takes the watch—her father’s watch—out of the box and fastens it onto her wrist.

She gawks at Stiles. “How did you…?”

“It was easy, really. Found it in the back of your dresser drawer, so I swiped it and had it fixed for you. Piece of cake.”

“You sneaky little shit,” Murphy chuckles. She plays with the open sides of Stiles’ flannel and eases onto her toes to plant a grateful kiss on his smug lips. “Thank you.”

“I know it’s not as good as mine, but…”

“No, it’s better.”

Stiles cups Murphy’s cheek and rubs his thumb along her sharp cheekbone. She leans into his touch and flutters her eyes shut, feeling the warmth radiating onto her skin. Stiles trails his hand down to her chin and lifts it, bringing her lips to his in a gentle kiss.

Murphy flashes her eyes open and releases herself from Stiles’ grasp. She whips her head back and forth, scanning the corridor, before grabbing Stiles’ hand and pulling him into the unlocked utility closet beneath the stairs.

Murphy eases the door shut behind them and clicks the lock, dropping her backpack to the floor as she does so. She turns to face Stiles, a sly smirk splashed across her lips and a devious glimmer in her eye. Murphy clasps her palm around Stiles’ neck, drags his face to hers, and plants her lips on his. She draws herself into him as Stiles paws at her back and hips.

Stiles shrugs out of his backpack. He moves his hand up Murphy’s back and curls it around the back of her neck, tangling his fingers in the stray hairs at the nape. He hooks the crook of her knee with the other hand and pitches it onto his hip so he can stroke the outside of her thigh and around the curve of her ass.

Murphy pulls away, brushing Stiles’ hand off her neck, as she lifts her sweatshirt over her head, revealing only a thin layer of lace covering her chest beneath it. She flings the sweatshirt across the room.

With his now free hand, Stiles grips the exposed skin above her hip, pinching the soft flesh. He brings his lips to Murphy’s bare chest and peppers sloppy kisses across her collarbone.

Murphy anchors herself against Stiles’ as his hands leave her eager body to wrench his arms out of his flannel. He grips his t-shirt by the back of the collar and pulls, revealing the line of dark hair leading to his pelvis. Murphy licks her lips and takes advantage of the opportunity.

She bends slightly and sprinkles teasing kisses up the trail of hair, then up the center of his sturdy chest, following the t-shirt’s path. Stiles yanks the cotton over his head, sending his already wild hair into a new state of disarray, and chucks it at the floor beside Murphy’s sweatshirt.

“Are we really gonna do this?” Stiles pants.

Murphy pops open the button of his jeans and pulls the zipper down slowly, making the _zzzip_ of his pants the only audible noise in the small utility closet.

“Stop talking.”

Murphy wriggles out of her pants and underwear. Stiles pushes his own trousers and boxer briefs down his legs, and pulls the condom out of his pocket as he does so. He tears the wrapper open and rolls it on.

Murphy leaps into Stiles’ arms. He catches her and pivots so her back is against the wall. He thrusts into her slowly at first, but soon hits an even stride. He steadies himself against the concrete wall with one hand, the other hooked tightly around Murphy’s waist.

Murphy links her arms around his neck and breathes heavily into his ear as he moves inside her. She dips her head back, hitting it against the concrete, but not caring, overwhelmed by the arousing sensations.

Stiles pace quickens as he nears his release. Murphy hovers in the feeling of his body against hers as he empties himself into the condom and slumps against Murphy’s shoulder.

Murphy pats Stiles’ back and laughs, “Good work, champ.”

“Thanks,” he says, a breathy chuckle following the word.

Murphy crawls out from under Stiles and slides back into her clothes. As she tugs her sweatshirt over her head, she swears, “Shit, what time is it?”

“I dunno. Why don’t you tell me?”

Murphy glances down at her father’s watch and says, “Class still doesn’t start for another five minutes.”

“Planned that one perfectly, didn’t we?” Stiles adds as he pulls on his flannel.

“Sure did,” Murphy says and high-fives him.

The two pick their backpacks up off the floor and slide into the lecture hall, disheveled and lightly panting, just as Professor Dalton begins to close the doors.


	27. Chapter 27

# SATURDAY, APRIL 20, 8:26 P.M., SETON HALL

Running high on a two-week ‘no fighting, only fucking’ streak, the passion between Murphy and Stiles has reached, as Murphy perceives, its limit. She struggles to focus her racing thoughts, or distract herself from flashing images of his body and the feel of his hands on her.

The way she feels about him is making Dalton’s class much more difficult than it has to be.

But, at least here, in her bed, face to face with Stiles, she doesn’t have to distract herself, especially as she runs her tongue up the long slope of his neck. Stiles groans as Murphy bites his shoulder and brings her hands to either side of his face.

Stiles smiles and loops his hands around Murphy’s wrists. He draws her hands away and weaves his fingers between hers.

“Can we just… talk?”

Murphy blinks and tries to pry her fingers out from between his, but something stops her, unsure if it’s the strength of his hands or her body’s unwillingness to obey the irrational panic rushing through her head.

“You wanna talk?” she gulps. “What about?”

“I dunno,” Stiles shrugs, “stuff.”

“What kinda stuff?”

“Just stuff.”

“Can you narrow it down a bit?”

“Now, what’s the fun in that?” he teases, an endearingly mischievous grin flashing across his lips.

Murphy matches his smile and clears her throat. “Where do we start?”

“Well,” Stiles hums, “if you wanna start off easy, we could talk about what you wanna do after graduation?”

“Pass.”

“Then, we could talk about what _we’re_ gonna do after graduation.”

“Double-pass.”

“You’re really burning through all my topics here.”

“Can’t we just talk about something easy?” Murphy groans. “Like, what’s your favorite color?”

“Green,” Stiles quips. “Yours?”

Murphy grins, “Red.”

“Good color. Strong color.”

“I know, that’s why I like it.”

So, that’s what they do for the rest of the night—simply, talk. Murphy finds herself opening up about things she’s never told anyone before, and things she hasn’t talked about in years. The words flow endlessly from her mouth, as though the dam’s been broken through.

A hush falls over them as Murphy finally stops.

“Fuck,” she chuckles breathily, “I don’t think I’ve talked that much in years. Not since high school at least, maybe not ever. You’re a good listener.” Her cheeks flush as she compliments Stiles.

He grins and says, “Can I ask you something?”

“You’re not tired of hearing my voice after all that?” Murphy jokes.

“What happened to your parents?”

Murphy’s face falls instantly and she pulls back from him. She clears her throat and answers, “You read the police reports, so you already know, don’t you?”

“I don’t know your side of it,” Stiles explains, tilting his head to meet his eyes with Murphy’s.

Murphy sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t really talk about it.”

“I’m sorry, you don’t have to—”

“But, I want to.” The words come from a place deep in Murphy’s chest, locked away for years, where she didn’t even know they lived until they were finally freed.

“It was June 20, a Saturday. I remember ‘cause I graduated that Wednesday before, and we were all leaving on this month long vacation to Europe the next day. So, Saturday night, they went to see this show in the city at this theater they had season tickets to. They were supposed to be back ‘round 11, but I was so busy packing for the trip, that I didn’t realize how late it got.”

Murphy exhales heavily. “Anyway, I got the call ‘round midnight and the cops showed up ‘round 1. And, that was it.”

Stiles gulps, “I wish there was something I could say, something helpful.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” Murphy leans her back against the bedframe. She hugs her knees to her chest and shrugs.

“Then, what happened?”

Murphy crinkles her brow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“What happened next?” Stiles asks. “I know that’s not the whole story.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not,” he insists. “After my mom died, I didn’t know how to cope. I had panic attacks for months. The only things that held me together were my dad, my best friend Scott, and his mom Melissa. So, what’d you do?”

Murphy stares out the window into the night sky and searches her brain for an answer to his question. She’s never thought much about what happened after, ignoring the three month gap between the end and the next beginning.

“I kinda shut down,” she replies eventually. “I didn’t—don’t—have any other family. My grandma had died a couple months before, and the rest of them were long dead before I came along, so I was sorta on my own.

“At barely eighteen, I didn’t know anything about planning a funeral, so luckily I had this family friend that did all that stuff for me. Helped me go through the house and shit, figure out the beneficiary crap, deal with all the lawyers and insurance fuckers.

“So, I guess they were the one who kept me sane. Eventually I figured out how to deal with the lawyers and whoever on my own, so I didn’t need them anymore. Haven’t talked to them since that first Christmas after the accident, though. Hell, I haven’t even been home since that Christmas.”

“You haven’t been back to your house since 2015?”

“Nope.”

“So, you left _everything_ behind three years ago?”

“Even my motherfucking name.”

“Jesus.” Stiles shakes his head and inhales sharply. “How did you do it?”

“I never had much there to begin with. No good friends or anything. Plus, I thought starting over would be better… easier.”

“Was it?”

Murphy stares at Stiles for a long time before answering.

“No, it wasn’t.”

Stiles rests his palm on Murphy’s crossed leg and squeezes reassuringly.

Murphy glances down at her watch and whispers, “Holy shit, it’s 3 a.m.”

“Ha!” Stiles cackles. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, we’ve been talking for, like, six hours.”

“I bet you never done that before.”

“I definitely haven’t,” she breathes.

She raises her eyes to meet his. Staring into his honey brown irises, she feels an unfamiliar wave of courage, or perhaps idiocy masking as courage, wash over her.

She straightens her spine and pops her lips before asking, “Do you wanna stay over?”

Stiles tightens his grip around her hands and grins. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Murphy beams as she swings her legs off the mattress, hitting her knee against the edge of the bedframe, as usual. She skips over to her dresser and slips into a nearly identical sleep set to the one Stiles had ruined two weeks before.

Stiles drops his t-shirt and jeans to the floor beside the bed, then shimmies under the bedcovers. Murphy climbs over him, burrowing herself into the space between his half-naked body and the wall.

Stiles rolls onto his side to face her. Their noses brush against each other.

“I didn’t think you’d ever let me stay over,” he whispers.

“Honestly, me neither,” she whispers back. Murphy snakes her arms around Stiles shoulders and demands, “Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn around,” she repeats. Stiles obeys, flipping onto his other side so his back is facing Murphy.

Murphy locks her arms around his middle and pulls his back into her chest. She bends her knees to meet the crooks of his and nuzzles her face into his neck.

“Oh,” Stiles says, pleasant surprise in his voice, “this is nice.”

“I know,” Murphy yawns.

Stiles reaches over and flicks off the bedside lamp switch. He clasps his hand around Murphy’s wrist and kisses her knuckles before pulling them closer to his sternum.

Murphy’s eyes flutter shut as she focuses on the feel of his ribcage, expanding and contracting as his lungs fill and empty. She focuses on the heat radiating from his speckled skin. She focuses on the steady thump of his heart, beating in perfect rhythm behind the bone her hand rests upon. Murphy imagines a ghost painter flicking his brush across her lips, the paint stroke lifting the corner of her mouth into a permanent smile as she falls asleep.

Stiles blinks his eyes, unable to keep them closed, the pupils darting a mile a minute throughout the room, scanning the unfamiliar location for any sign of danger, or a practical jokester hiding behind the orderly rows of striped shirts lining Murphy’s wardrobe.

He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on the feel of her breasts against his back, pressing in and pulling back as her lungs fill and empty. He focuses on the heat radiating from her petite, cotton-covered body. He focuses on the steady thump of her heart, beating what he thinks is far too slowly against his spine.

As he stares at the darkness behind his shut eyelids, he imagines waking up tomorrow morning, unsure if Murphy will be laid beside him or not, but praying her body will stay this close to his all through the night.


	28. Chapter 28

# SUNDAY, APRIL 21, 7:38 A.M., SETON HALL

Murphy wakes as she never has—with a boy asleep in front of her and a swear word, yanking her numb arm out from under his heavy side.

Stiles stirs and rolls over onto his back. “Good morning,” he mumbles.

“Morning,” Murphy chirps back in a whisper.

Stiles stretches out his arms and loops them around Murphy’s waist. “What do you wanna do today?”

“Fuck, I dunno,” she scoffs. “What do you wanna do?”

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

Stiles chuckles and sighs, “It’s good to know you’re this stubborn all the time.” He rubs his hand across her back and asks again, “So, what _do_ you wanna do?”

“I seriously don’t know,” she yawns.

“Well,” he drawls, “we could go for a walk. Or, do some studying. I know how much you love studying. Or, get some breakfast. Or—”

“Whatever the fuck we want,” Murphy interrupts, grinning wildly like a woman unhinged, a woman finally coming to the realization that she doesn’t have to do anything, nothing at all, if she doesn’t want to.

“Exactly,” Stiles beams. “Isn’t it nice not knowing what to do sometimes?”


	29. Chapter 29

# TUESDAY, APRIL 30, 11:55 P.M., UNIVERSITY COURTYARD

Murphy strolls up to the courtyard and leans against one of the lampposts. She wonders why Stiles wants to meet her here, on campus, rather than at his apartment or her dorm. It doesn’t make sense to her and it makes her nervous.

“Sorry, sorry,” Stiles pants as he jogs up to her. “Sorry, I’m late.”

“It’s not entirely surprising,” Murphy quips.

Stiles grins, unfazed by her tone, and pulls a reusable Trader Joe’s bag from behind his back. “Ta-da!” he sings.

“Whatcha got there?”

“It’s a picnic!” Stiles settles into the grass cross-legged and pulls a bottle of wine, two wine glasses, and a sleeve of Oreos from the bag.

“Well, isn’t this fancy,” Murphy jokes as she sits down beside him.

“Hey, I’m on a budget here. This was the best I could do.”

Murphy takes the wine bottle from Stiles’ hand and pours herself a generous glass. She takes a sip. “Mm, tastes like college.”

“That’s exactly what I was going for,” he snickers.

“Is this why you wanted to meet me at midnight? So we could drink on university property without getting in trouble?”

“Yup, that’s exactly it.” He holds up his glass and clinks it against hers. “Cheers.”

They both take a sip.

Stiles gulps. “So…” he croons. “I wanna talk to you about something.”

“Okay,” Murphy chuckles nervously, “should I be worried?”

“No, definitely not.”

“Alright, then shoot.”

Stiles shifts in his seated position and takes another long swig. He swallows and sets his glass down on the grass. He starts, “I know you really don’t want to talk about this, but I think we need to.”

“Talk about what?”

“About what’s gonna happen after graduation. With us.”

Murphy’s stomach jumps into her chest. She chugs the last of her wine, then fills the glass again and takes another gulp.

Stiles lays his hand over Murphy’s and squeezes her fingers. “I love… this. What we have. Us, together. It makes me happier than I ever thought possible. And, I don’t think this thing has to end after graduation, do you?”

Murphy sighs, “I want to say no, but I don’t know how we can possibly stay together. You start at the FBI in a few weeks—literally days after graduation. And, I still don’t know what I’m gonna do next…”

“I know you don’t wanna come to D.C. I respect that, but we can try a long distance thing. I come visit you, you come visit me. We can make it work.”

Murphy finishes off the second glass of wine and wipes the back of her hand against her mouth. “Stiles, I can’t go to D.C.”

“We could switch off or something—”

“No, Stiles, you’re not listening to me,” Murphy snaps. Stiles falls silent. “I can’t go to D.C.”

“It’s just to visit, I’m not asking you to live there.”

“It’s too… It’s just too…”

“What?” he presses.

“It’s too painful,” Murphy admits. “I haven’t been home in almost four years—”

“Home?” Stiles interrupts.

Murphy gazes down at her hands. “Yeah, home.”

“You’re from D.C.?” he whispers.

“Yeah, I am,” she admits. “I grew up in McLean, right outside the city. I technically still have a house there. Haven’t had the heart to sell it.”

Stiles sits silently and waits for Murphy to continue.

“I just… When I’m there, I feel like the air is thicker. Heavier, y’know? Like, too heavy to breathe. And, I feel like there’s always someone standing behind me in that house, but I can’t see them.” Murphy takes a deep breath. “I haven’t stepped foot in that house since 2015. And, I dunno if I ever can again.”

Stiles untangles his legs and crawls across the grass toward Murphy.

“Okay,” he nods, “then we’ll just have to enjoy this thing while we’ve still got it.”

He wraps his arms around her and draws her deep into his chest. He doesn’t say anything more, he simply holds her. Because he knows that’s what she needs.

Murphy feels a hard spot beneath her ribcage chip away as she listens to Stiles’ beating heart. And, for some bizarre reason, she stays there, in his arms, and lets him hold her. Maybe she’s too tired to pull away; maybe not. She doesn’t know and she doesn’t want to.

All she wants is to listen to Stiles’ heartbeat.

The steady thump is like white noise to Murphy’s ears as she lays there, the absence of sound allowing her mind to drift.

After all this time, she’s only wanted one thing—to get away, to escape, to move on.

_But maybe_, she thinks, _moving on isn’t escaping. Maybe moving on is going back. Maybe moving on is facing the future. Maybe moving on could be a life in D.C._

_Then again_, she considers, _maybe not_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, y'all, it's all coming to an end. The next two chapters take place on the same day, and the final one that follows is the epilogue. Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.


	30. Chapter 30

# FRIDAY, MAY 3, 7:04 P.M., EVERMAY APARTMENTS, APT. 24C

Murphy knocks frantically against Stiles’ door, her knuckles hitting the wood at a near impossible frequency. Stiles whips the door open, his angered face quickly softening at the sight of the girl behind the door.

“This is a nice surprise,” he says. “I didn’t expect to see you ‘til class tomor—”

Murphy loops her arms around his neck, and kisses him. Stiles chuckles between her lips and brings his arms around her back. She pulls her mouth from his and smiles.

“I got you something,” she purrs.

“Me?”

Murphy rolls her eyes, “Yes, _you_.”

Stiles looks left, then right, then scans Murphy up and down. “Where is it?”

“It’s outside, but you have to close your eyes!”

“Seriously?” Stiles scoffs.

“Yes!”

Stiles chuckles at the pure excitement painted across her face, an eagerness he’s never seen on her before. “Fine,” he grumbles jokingly and cups his hands over his eyes.

Murphy grabs him by the upper arm and leads him carefully down the stairs and outside the apartment building. She spins him around so he’s facing the parking lot.

“Okay, you can look.”

Stiles drops his hands—and, his jaw along with them.

“Holy shit,” he gasps.

“Do you like it?”

Stiles approaches the blue car and places his palm against the metal door. He turns to Murphy, dumbfounded, and says, “You got me a new Jeep?” 

“Yeah, I did,” she replies.

“How’d you even afford this?”

“I’m a multimillionaire, remember?” 

“Oh, right, forgot about that,” he says sarcastically. Stiles circles the car, setting Murphy on edge.

“It’s not new,” Murphy adds. “It’s a couple years old, actually. And used. But, for some strange reason, I thought you’d appreciate that more.”

“I can’t believe this,” Stiles sighs. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Oh, fuck,” Murphy groans, “it’s too much, isn’t it? It’s just, like, I mean… What’s the point of having all this money if I can’t spend it on the people I love? I just got carried away—”

“What did you just say?” Stiles interrupts. “Did you just say you love me?”

“What? No!” Murphy shrieks.

“Yes, you did.”

Murphy gapes as she attempts to recover, finally managing to say, “Well, it’s not what I meant. I meant, like, people I care about. Or, whatever.”

“Yeah, but that’s not what you said.”

“But it’s what I meant.”

A sneaky smirk stretches across Stiles’ mouth. “You totally love me,” he teases.

“I do not!” Murphy shouts.

“You totally do.”

“I haven’t given you the keys yet. I can take this right back to the car lot—”

Stiles rushes to Murphy and holds her by the hips, his warm touch quieting her. “Fine, you don’t love me,” he smirks. “I totally don’t love you either.”

Murphy purses her lips to hide her smile as she wrenches a set of keys out of her pocket, complete with a green bottle opener keychain hanging off the silver loop. She folds them into Stiles’ hand. “Wanna go for a drive?”

Stiles drags her to the Jeep excitedly and tosses her into his new car. He soaks in the moment as he sinks into the plush seat and palms the leather steering wheel. He lets out a satisfied sigh and locks eyes with Murphy, a dangerous grin lighting up his face and honey-colored eyes.

He cackles maniacally as he whips out of the parking lot and cruises down the street, the tires squealing on the asphalt with every sharp turn. Stiles has no idea where he’s going and Murphy doesn’t mind. The childlike joy on his face is worth every second of aimlessness.

The longer she stares at Stiles, the more she thinks about what he said to her:

_We could do our own thing together._

And, for the first time in years, Murphy finds herself thinking about the future: a future with Stiles.

A little house in Arlington or Alexandria, close enough to D.C. and Quantico that no matter where he’s stationed, the commute won’t be completely horrendous. Still long, but bearable. That’s just D.C. traffic for you.

The house will probably cost a good chunk of the insurance money, but that’s alright. A million leftover, another million and a half in inheritance, and at least a good eight-hundred thousand for her parents’ place is more money than she ever would’ve dreamed of.

Brick. Definitely brick. With a red door. No, _green_. And blue shutters. And vines and flowers crawling up the place. Natural light and hardwood floors in every room.

There’ll be a spare room, of course—an office with a gigantic bookshelf and a desk by the window and a cluttered crime board, just for fun. A morbid hobby to share, but a hobby nonetheless.

And, a dog, obviously. Some wiry little mutt they’ll take on runs around their idyllic neighborhood, and weekend walks along the path off the George Washington Parkway. And, he’ll sleep at the end of their bed each night.

The dog, not Stiles.

Yes, Murphy imagines it all. And she realizes she’s never been so terrified in her entire life.


	31. Chapter 31

# FRIDAY, MAY 3, 8:13 P.M., EVERMAY APARTMENTS

Stiles pulls into his spot and puts the Jeep in park. He clicks his seatbelt and turns to Murphy. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “You’ve barely said anything in almost an hour. My driving isn’t that bad, is it?”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Can you take me home? I’m really tired and I kinda just wanna go to sleep.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No!” he repeats. “I will not take you home, because you’re freaking out right now and you won’t tell me why.”

“I’m not freaking out,” Murphy lies.

“Yes, you are. You’re freaking out about something and I don’t know what. And, the more I wonder what it could be, the more I’m gonna freak out, so tell me now and we can end the vicious cycle before it starts.”

Murphy meets Stiles’ gentle gaze, the trustful twinkle in his eyes coaxing the words out of her mouth.

“I—I’m…” She stops herself and looks back down at her hands. “I’m just tired…”

Stiles clasps his palm around her fingers and whispers, “You can trust me.”

Murphy sighs. “I’m fucking scared, okay?”

“Scared?”

“Yeah,” she breathes. The words fall freely from her lips. “I’m fucking petrified about everything right now. About graduation. About what I’m gonna fucking do with the rest of my life. About how the fuck I’m supposed to sell my parents’ house—I mean, seriously, I don’t know the first thing about working with a realtor. About us…”

Murphy’s voice falters as the truth finally comes to the surface.

“You’re scared about us?” Stiles asks. “What are you so scared about?”

Murphy shakes her head dismissively and wipes the wet skin under her eye with the hem of her sleeve.

“Scared we’ll break up? Scared we’ll never see each other again?”

“No,” she whimpers, “the opposite.”

“You’re scared we _won’t_ break up and that we _will_ see each other again?”

“Yes,” Murphy admits.

Stiles sighs confusedly, “Why?”

“Because I want that stuff you said, about us doing our own thing together. I want to go to D.C. with you. I want to figure my life out, with you around me while I do it. I don’t wanna fuck everything up anymore.”

“You don’t fuck everything up—”

“Stiles, I swear to god, if you interrupt me I’ll never get this out.”

Stiles holds his hands up in surrender as Murphy continues.

“I don’t wanna cut myself off from everybody and never think about what could happen next in life, y’know? I wanna get to know people and do things with them and…”

Murphy’s tone brightens as she continues, “I wanna go to a fancy dinner party! Like, a real one, for adults. And, I wanna go to brunch and get way too drunk off five-dollar bottles of champagne. And, I wanna go out. And, have fun. And, just… live, y’know?”

Murphy finally looks up at Stiles again. Her eyes immediately rest on his loving smile.

“Yeah, I do know,” he says. “Because I want all that stuff, too.”

“Yeah?” Murphy gulps.

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, “and I want it with you.”

Murphy bites down on her lip. A glassy sheen falls over her eyes as she whispers, “I’ve never been so afraid to want anything in my whole life.”

“Well, can I tell you a secret?” Stiles asks, gripping Murphy’s headrest and leaning in. “I feel the same way.”

“You do?”

“Of course, I do! You make me feel happier than I have in a long time. I’ve told you that already. Y’know, it’s just… It’s when I look at you I feel…”

“Hope.”

Stiles nods and grins, “Yeah, it’s hope.”

Stiles moves his hand to Murphy’s cheek. He rubs his thumb back and forth over her jawbone and says, “If you wanna move to D.C. after graduation, you know how I feel about that. I’d love nothing more than for you to do your own thing with me.”

As Murphy and Stiles sit there in the Jeep, the late-spring sun sets over the budding treetops, bathing them in a soft pink and orange glow. And, though the sun may be setting, it may as well be rising, for this is the dawn of a new day, a new life, a new adventure for Daisy Murphy and Stiles Stilinski.


	32. Epilogue

Murphy wakes as she always does—with a sleepy moan, and pins and needles rushing through her arm, prying it out from under her husband’s unconscious body.

And, like every Saturday morning, she takes her time crawling over the man asleep next to her, praying she doesn’t wake him as she pads to the kitchen of their metropolitan utopia.

She sips from her favorite mug, the one he painted for her on their tenth anniversary date. She’s always found it endearing, the fact he’d tried so hard to mimic Rene Magritte’s “The Menaced Assassin,” only managing to get right the blood dripping from the naked woman’s mouth.

After reaching the dredges of the tea leaves and washing the mug with painstaking attentiveness, she completes the last of her morning rituals, which include buckling her father’s leather watch to her wrist, fastening her mother’s pendant around her neck, and filling their wiry terrier’s food and water bowls.

Murphy hops the loft steps two at a time, ascending the single flight at double the pace. She pushes through the bedroom doors and into the soft morning glow streaming through the gossamer curtains.

Murphy tiptoes over to the bed and climbs atop her husband, causing the dog at the end of the bed to raise his head. Murphy places a tender kiss on the man’s lips.

His honey brown eyes flicker open.

Stiles stretches out his arms and loops them around the woman straddling him—his wife. Through his sleepy cotton mouth, he mumbles, “Good morning.” 

The terrier trots up the bed and curls up in the space between Stiles’ arm and ribcage. Stiles laughs and ruffles the top of the dog’s head. “And, good morning to you too, Winston.”

Murphy groans, “I still can’t believe you talked me into naming our fucking dog after a goddamn academic building.”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s where we met. It’s romantic.”

Murphy grins and presses her lips sweetly against Stiles’ once more. He rubs his left hand across Murphy’s back, his ring-adorned finger bumping over her bony spine.

“So, what do you wanna do today?” he asks.

Murphy grins and replies, “Whatever the fuck we want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my story. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


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